MY 

LITTLE 
BOY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MY    LITTLE   BOY 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

THE  SPIDER  AND  OTHER  TALES  net,  $1.00 

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MY  LITTLE  BOY net,  $1.00 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 


BY 
CARL    EWALD 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  DANISH 
BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW    YORK   :::::::    1915 


Copyright,  1906,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Sole  Authorized  Translation 

Published,  April,  1906 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

CARL  EWALD,  the  author  of  this  little  book, 
was  born  in  1856  in  the  Duchy  of  Schleswig, 
where  his  father,  himself  a  writer  of  historical 
and  other  novels,  all  widely  read  in  their 
time,  followed  the  occupation  of  a  land-sur- 
veyor and  owned  a  small  farm.  After  the 
iniquitous  war  of  1864,  when  Schleswig  was 
surrendered  to  Germany,  the  Ewald  family 
refused  to  accept  Prussian  nationality  and 
left  for  Elsinore,  in  Denmark,  whence  they 
eventually  moved  to  settle  at  Copenhagen. 

The  son  studied  at  the  University,  was  for 
some  years  a  forester  and  afterwards  a  school- 
master. His  first  productions  in  literature 
were  a  long  series  of  fairy-tales:  Two-Legs, 
which  the  present  publishers  will  issue  after 
this  volume,  The  Quiet  Pool,  The  Four  Sea- 
sons, and  many  others,  which  will  now  appear 
in  their  English  version  in  rapid  succession. 
Then  came  My  Little  Boy  and  a  number  of 


I 


TRANSLATOR'S   NOTE 

psychological,  half-mystical  stories,  such  as 
Pastor  Jepsen's  Christmas  Eve  and  The  Old 
Room,  of  which  an  English  translation  is 
also  to  be  published  shortly.  All  these  are 
marked  by  the  same  bright  individuality  of 
style,  combined  with  a  simplicity  of  expres- 
sion and  narrative  that  gives  them  a  charm 
which  is  all  their  own.  And  I  can  but  hope 
that  not  too  much  of  this  has  been  lost  in  the 
translating. 

The  hero  of  My  Little  Boy  is  now  a  grow- 
ing lad  of  thirteen  and  has  four  little  sisters 
to  keep  him  company.  All  that  Carl  Ewald 
has  written  about  children  in  this  book  and 
elsewhere  is  the  fruit  of  his  personal  knowl- 
edge and  observation  of  his  own  children  and 
those  of  others.  So  too  his  experience  of 
forestry  has  stood  him  in  the  rarest  stead 
when  writing  of  beasts  and  birds  and  fishes^ 
of  trees  and  flowers,  of  the  seasons  and  the 
wind  and  the  mist. 

For  the  rest,  Carl  Ewald  was  educated  and 
grew  up  in  a  household  where  piety  and  con- 
servatism reigned  so  supreme  that,  from 
sheer  despair,  he  lapsed  gradually  into  a 
radicalism  which,  perhaps  for  that  very  rea- 
vi 


TRANSLATOR'S    NOTE 

son,  became  stronger  than  that  of  most  of  his 
contemporaries,  "  and  for  which,"  he  writes 
to  me  "  there  is  but  little  room  in  Denmark." 
He  does  not  belong  and  has  never  belonged 
to  any  literary  school  or  clique,  but  he  "  loves 
Georg  Brandes,"  to  quote  his  own  words 
again,  "as  the  man  who  brought  new  life 
into  Danish  literature  and  whose  whole  per- 
sonality and  sphere  of  activity  have  meant 
so  much  to  me  in  my  career." 

A.  T.  DE  M. 

LONDON,  ENGLAND, 
St.  Patrick's  Day,  1906. 


vii 


MY   LITTLE    BOY 

CHAPTER    I 

MY  little  boy  is  beginning  to  live. 

Carefully,  stumbling  now  and  then 
on  his  little  knock-kneed  legs,  he 
makes  his  way  over  the  paving-stones, 
looks  at  everything  that  there  is  to 
look  at  and  bites  at  every  apple,  both 
those  which  are  his  due  and  those 
which  are  forbidden  him. 

He  is  not  a  pretty  child  and  is  the 
more  likely  to  grow  into  a  fine  lad. 
But  he  is  charming. 

His  face  can  light  up  suddenly  and 

become  radiant;  and  he  can  look  at 

you  with  quite  cold  eyes.  He  has  a 

strong  intuition  and  he  is  incorrupt- 

l 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

ible.  He  has  never  yet  bartered  a  kiss 
for  barley-sugar.  There  are  people 
whom  he  likes  and  people  whom  he 
dislikes.  There  is  one  who  has  long 
courted  his  favour  indefatigably  and 
in  vain ;  and,  the  other  day,  he  formed 
a  close  friendship  with  another  who 
had  not  so  much  as  said  "Good-day" 
to  him  before  he  had  crept  into  her 
lap  and  nestled  there  with  glowing 
resolution. 

He  has  a  habit  which  I  love. 

When  we  are  walking  together  and 
there  is  anything  that  impresses  him, 
he  lets  go  my  hand  for  a  moment. 
Then,  when  he  has  investigated  the 
phenomenon  and  arrived  at  a  result, 
I  feel  his  little  fist  in  mine  again. 

He  has  bad  habits  too. 

He  is  apt,  for  instance,  suddenly 
and  without  the  slightest  reason,  to 

2 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

go  up  to  people  whom  he  meets  in 
the  street  and  hit  them  with  his  little 
stick.  What  is  in  his  mind,  when  he 
does  so,  I  do  not  know;  and,  so  long 
as  he  does  not  hit  me,  it  remains  a 
matter  between  himself  and  the  peo- 
ple concerned. 

He  has  an  odd  trick  of  seizing  big 
words  in  a  grown-up  conversation, 
storing  them  up  for  a  while  and  then 
asking  me  for  an  explanation: 

"Father,"  he  says,  "what  is  life?" 

I  give  him  a  tap  in  his  little  stomach, 
roll  him  over  on  the  carpet  and  con- 
ceal my  emotion  under  a  mighty 
romp.  Then,  when  we  sit  breathless 
and  tired,  I  answer,  gravely: 

"Life  is  delightful,  my  little  boy. 
Don't  you  be  afraid  of  it!" 


CHAPTER   II 

TO-DAY  my  little  boy  gave  me  my 
first  lesson. 

It  was  in  the  garden. 

I  was  writing  in  the  shade  of  the 
big  chestnut-tree,  close  to  where  the 
brook  flows  past.  He  was  sitting  a 
little  way  off,  on  the  grass,  in  the 
sun,  with  Hans  Christian  Andersen 
in  his  lap. 

Of  course,  he  does  not  know  how 
to  read,  but  he  lets  you  read  to  him, 
likes  to  hear  the  same  tales  over  and 
over  again.  The  better  he  knows 
them,  the  better  he  is  pleased.  He 
follows  the  story  page  by  page, 
knows  exactly  where  everything 
4 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

comes  and  catches  you  up  immedi- 
ately should  you  skip  a  line. 

There  are  two  tales  which  he 
loves  more  than  anything  in  the 
world. 

These  are  Grimm's  Faithful  John 
and  Andersen's  The  Little  Mermaid. 
When  any  one  comes  whom  he  likes, 
he  fetches  the  big  Grimm,  with  those 
heaps  of  pictures,  and  asks  for  Faith- 
ful John.  Then,  if  the  reader  stops, 
because  it  is  so  terribly  sad,  with  all 
those  little  dead  children,  a  bright 
smile  lights  up  his  small,  long  face 
and  he  says,  reassuringly  and  pleased 
at  "knowing  better:" 

"Yes,  but  they  come  to  life  again." 

To-day,  however,  it  is  The  Little 
Mermaid. 

"Is  that  the  sort  of  stories  you 
write?"  he  asks. 

5 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"Yes,"  I  say,  "but  I  am  afraid  mine 
will  not  be  so  pretty." 

"You  must  take  pains,"  he  says. 

And  I  promise. 

For  a  time  he  makes  no  sound.  I 
go  on  writing  and  forget  about  him. 

"Is  there  a  little  mermaid  down 
there,  in  the  water?"  he  asks. 

"Yes,  she  swims  up  to  the  top  in  the 
summer." 

He  nods  and  looks  out  across  the 
brook,  which  ripples  so  softly  and 
smoothly  that  one  can  hardly  see  the 
water  flow.  On  the  opposite  side,  the 
rushes  grow  green  and  thick  and 
there  is  also  a  bird,  hidden  in  the 
rushes,  which  sings.  The  dragon-flies 
are  whirling  and  humming.  I  am  sit- 
ting with  my  head  in  my  hand,  ab- 
sorbed in  my  work. 

Suddenly,  I  hear  a  splash. 

6 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

I  jump  from  my  chair,  upset  the 
table,  dart  forward  and  see  that  my 
little  boy  is  gone.  The  brook  is  bil- 
lowing and  foaming;  there  are  wide 
circles  on  the  surface. 

In  a  moment,  I  am  in  the  water  and 
find  him  and  catch  hold  of  him. 

He  stands  on  the  grass,  dripping 
with  wet,  spluttering  and  coughing. 
His  thin  clothes  are  clinging  to  his 
thin  body,  his  face  is  black  with  mud. 
But  out  of  the  mud  gleams  a  pair  of 
angry  eyes: 

"There  was  no  mermaid,"  he  says. 

I  do  not  at  once  know  what  to  re- 
ply and  I  have  no  time  to  think. 

"Do  you  write  that  sort  of  stories?" 
he  asks. 

"Yes,"  I  say,  shamefaced. 

"I  don't  like  any  of  you,"  he  says. 
"You  make  fun  of  a  little  boy." 

7 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

He  turns  his  back  on  me  and,  proud 
and  wet,  goes  indoors  without  once 
looking  round. 

This  evening,  Grimm  and  Hans 
Christian  Andersen  disappear  in  a 
mysterious  manner,  which  is  never 
explained.  He  will  miss  them  greatly, 
at  first;  but  he  will  never  be  fooled 
again,  not  if  I  were  to  give  him  the 
sun  and  moon  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER   III 

MY  little  boy  and  I  have  had  an 
exceedingly  interesting  walk  in  the 
Frederiksberg  Park. 

There  was  a  mouse,  which  was  irre- 
sistible. There  were  two  chaffinches, 
husband  and  wife,  which  built  their 
nest  right  before  our  eyes,  and  a  snail, 
which  had  no  secrets  for  us.  And 
there  were  flowers,  yellow  and  white, 
and  there  were  green  leaves,  which 
told  us  the  oddest  adventures :  in  fact, 
as  much  as  we  can  find  room  for  in 
our  little  head. 

Now  we  are  sitting  on  a  bench  and 
digesting  our  impressions. 

9 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

Suddenly  the  air  is  shaken  by  a  tre- 
mendous roar: 

"What  was  that?"  asks  my  little  boy. 

"That  was  the  lion  in  the  Zoological 
Gardens,"  I  reply. 

No  sooner  have  I  said  this  than  I 
curse  my  own  stupidity. 

I  might  have  said  that  it  was  a  gun- 
shot announcing  the  birth  of  a  prince ; 
or  an  earthquake ;  or  a  china  dish  fall- 
ing from  the  sky  and  breaking  into 
pieces:  anything  whatever,  rather 
than  the  truth. 

For  now  my  little  boy  wants  to 
know  what  sort  of  thing  the  Zoologi- 
cal Gardens  is. 

I  tell  him. 

The  Zoological  Gardens  is  a  horrid 

place,  where  they  lock  up  wild  beasts 

who  have  done  no  wrong  and  who  are 

accustomed  to  walk  about  freely  in 

10 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

the  distant  foreign  countries  where 
they  come  from.  The  lion  is  there, 
whom  we  have  just  heard  roaring. 
He  is  so  strong  that  he  can  kill  a 
policeman  with  one  blow  of  his  paw; 
he  has  great,  haughty  eyes  and 
awfully  sharp  teeth.  He  lives  in 
Africa  and,  at  night,  when  he  roars, 
all  the  other  beasts  tremble  in  their 
holes  for  fear.  He  is  called  the  king 
of  beasts.  They  caught  him  one  day 
in  a  cunning  trap  and  bound  him 
and  dragged  him  here  and  locked  him 
up  in  a  cage  with  iron  bars  to  it.  The 
cage  is  no  more  than  half  as  big  as 
Petrine's  room.  And  there  the  king 
walks  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  and 
gnashes  his  teeth  with  sorrow  and 
rage  and  roars  so  that  you  can  hear 
him  ever  so  far  away.  Outside  his 
cage  stand  cowardly  people  and 
11 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

laugh  at  him,  because  he  can't  get 
out  and  eat  them  up,  and  poke  their 
sticks  through  the  rails  and  tease  him. 

My  little  boy  stands  in  front  of  me 
and  looks  at  me  with  wide-open  eyes : 

"Would  he  eat  them  up,  if  he  got 
out?"  he  asks. 

"In  a  moment." 

"But  he  can't  get  out,  can  he?" 

"No.  That's  awfully  sad.  He  can't 
get  out." 

"Father,  let  us  go  and  look  at  the 
lion." 

I  pretend  not  to  hear  and  go  on  to 
tell  him  of  the  strange  birds  there: 
great  eagles,  which  used  to  fly  over 
every  church-steeple  and  over  the 
highest  trees  and  mountains  and 
swoop  down  upon  lambs  and  hares 
and  carry  them  up  to  their  young  in 
the  nest.  Xow  they  are  sitting  in 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

cages,  on  a  perch,  like  canaries,  with 
clipped  wings  and  blind  eyes.  I  tell 
him  of  gulls,  which  used  to  fly  all  day 
long  over  the  stormy  sea:  now  they 
splash  about  in  a  puddle  of  water, 
screaming  pitifully.  I  tell  him  of 
wonderful  blue  and  red  birds,  which, 
in  their  youth,  used  to  live  among 
wonderful  blue  and  red  flowers,  in 
balmy  forests  a  thousand  times  big- 
ger than  the  Frederiksberg  Park, 
where  it  was  as  dark  as  night  under 
the  trees  with  the  brightest  sun  shin- 
ing down  upon  the  tree-tops:  now 
they  sit  there  in  very  small  cages  and 
hang  their  beaks  while  they  stare  at 
tiresome  boys  in  dark-blue  suits  and 
black  stockings  and  waterproof  boots 
and  sailor-hats. 

"Are  those  birds  really  blue?"  asks 
my  little  boy. 

13 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

"Sky-blue,"  I  answer.  "And  utterly 
broken-hearted. ' ' 

"Father,  can't  we  go  and  look  at  the 
birds?" 

I  take  my  little  boy's  hands  in  mine : 

"I  don't  think  we  will,"  I  say.  "Why 
should  still  more  silly  boys  do  so? 
You  can't  imagine  how  it  goes  to 
one's  heart  to  look  at  those  poor  cap- 
tive beasts." 

"Father,  I  should  so  much  like  to 
go." 

"Take  my  advice  and  don't.  The 
animals  there  are  not  the  real  ani- 
mals, you  see.  They  are  ill  and  ugly 
and  angry  because  of  their  captivity 
and  their  longing  and  their  pain." 

"I  should  so  much  like  to  see  them." 

"Now  let  me  tell  you  something.  To 
go  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  costs 
five  cents  for  you  and  ten  cents  for 

14 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

me.  That  makes  fifteen  cents  alto- 
gether, which  is  an  awful  lot  of 
money.  We  won't  go  there  now,  but 
we'll  buy  the  biggest  money-box  we 
can  find:  one  of  those  money-boxes 
shaped  like  a  pig.  Then  we'll  put  fif- 
teen cents  in  it.  And  every  Thursday 
we'll  put  fifteen  cents  in  the  pig. 
By-and-by,  that  will  grow  into  quite 
a  fortune:  it  will  make  such  a  lot  of 
money  that,  when  you  are  grown  up, 
you  can  take  a  trip  to  Africa  and  go 
to  the  desert  and  hear  the  wild,  the 
real  lion  roaring  and  tremble  just  like 
the  people  tremble  down  there.  And 
you  can  go  to  the  great,  dark  forests 
and  see  the  real  blue  birds  flying 
proud  and  free  among  the  flowers. 
You  can't  think  how  glad  you  will 
be,  how  beautiful  they  will  look  and 
how  they  will  sing  to  you.  .  .  ." 

15 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"Father,  I  would  rather  go  to  the 
Zoological  Gardens  now." 

My  little  boy  does  not  understand 
a  word  of  what  I  say.  And  I  am  at 
my  wits'  end. 

"Shall  we  go  and  have  some  cakes 
at  Josty's?"  I  ask. 

"I  would  rather  go  to  the  Zoologi- 
cal Gardens." 

I  can  read  in  his  eyes  that  he  is  think- 
ing of  the  captive  lion.  Ugly  human 
instincts  are  waking  up  in  his  soul. 
The  mouse  is  forgotten  and  the  snail ; 
and  the  chaffinches  have  built  their 
nest  to  no  purpose. 

At  last  I  get  up  and  say,  bluntly, 
without  any  further  explanation: 

"You  are  not  going  to  the  Zoologi- 
cal Gardens.  Now  we'll  go  home." 

And  home  we  go.  But  we  are  not  in 
a  good  temper. 

16 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

Of  course,  I  get  over  it  and  I  buy  an 
enormous  money-box  pig.  Also  we 
put  the  money  into  it  and  he  thinks 
that  most  interesting. 

But,  later  in  the  afternoon,  I  find 
him  in  the  bed-room  engaged  in  a 
piteous  game. 

He  has  built  a  cage,  in  which  he  has 
imprisoned  the  pig.  He  is  teasing  it 
and  hitting  it  with  his  whip,  while  he 
keeps  shouting  to  it : 

"You  can't  get  out  and  bite  me,  you 
stupid  pig!  You  can't  get  out!" 


17 


CHAPTER  IV 

WE  have  beer-soup  and  Aunt  Anna 
to  dinner.  Now  beer-soup  is  a  nasty 
dish  and  Aunt  Anna  is  not  very  nice 
either. 

She  has  yellow  teeth  and  a  little 
hump  and  very  severe  eyes,  which  are 
not  even  both  equally  severe.  She  is 
nearly  always  scolding  us  and,  when 
she  sees  a  chance,  she  pinches  us. 

The  worst  of  all,  however,  is  that 
she  is  constantly  setting  us  a  good 
example,  which  can  easily  end  by 
gradually  and  inevitably  driving  us 
to  embrace  wickedness. 

Aunt  Anna  does  not  like  beer-soup 
any  more  than  we  do.  But  of  course 

18 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

she  eats  it  with  a  voluptuous  expres- 
sion on  her  face  and  looks  angrily  at 
my  little  boy,  who  does  not  even  make 
an  attempt  to  behave  nicely: 

"Why  doesn't  the  little  boy  eat  his 
delicious  beer-soup?"  she  asks. 

A  scornful  silence. 

"Such  delicious  beer-soup!  I  know  a 
poor,  wretched  boy  who  would  be 
awfully  glad  to  have  such  delicious 
beer-soup." 

My  little  boy  looks  with  great  in- 
terest at  Auntie,  who  is  swallowing 
her  soup  with  eyes  full  of  ecstatic 
bliss : 

"Where  is  he?"  he  asks. 

Aunt  Anna  pretends  not  to  hear. 

"Where  is  the  poor  boy?"  he  asks 
again. 

"Yes,  where  is  he?"  I  ask.  "What's 
his  name?" 

19 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

Aunt  Anna  gives  me  a  furious 
glance. 

"What's  his  name,  Aunt  Anna?" 
asks  my  little  boy.  "Where  does  he 
live?  He  can  have  my  beer-soup  with 
pleasure." 

"Mine  too,"  I  say,  resolutely,  and  I 
push  my  plate  from  me. 

My  little  boy  never  takes  his  great 
eyes  off  Aunt  Anna's  face.  Mean- 
while, she  has  recovered  herself: 

"There  are  many  poor  boys  who 
would  thank  God  if  they  could  get 
such  delicious  beer-soup,"  she  says. 
"Very  many.  Everywhere." 

"Yes,  but  tell  us  of  one,  Auntie,"  I 
say. 

My  little  boy  has  slipped  down  from 
his  chair.  He  stands  with  his  chin  just 
above  the  table  and  both  his  hands 
round  his  plate,  ready  to  march  off 

20 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

with  the  beer-soup  to  the  poor  boy, 
if  only  he  can  get  his  address. 

But  Aunt  Anna  does  not  allow  her- 
self to  be  played  with: 

"Heaps  of  poor  boys,"  she  says 
again.  "Hun-dreds!  And  therefore 
another  little  boy,  whom  I  will  not 
name,  but  who  is  in  this  room,  ought 
to  be  ashamed  that  he  is  not  thankful 
for  his  beer-soup." 

My  little  boy  stares  at  Aunt  Anna 
like  the  bird  fascinated  by  the  snake. 

"Such  delicious  beer-soup!"  she  says. 
"I  must  really  ask  for  another  little 
helping." 

Aunt  Anna  revels  in  her  martyr- 
dom. My  little  boy  stands  speech- 
less, with  open  mouth  and  round 
eyes. 

I  push  my  chair  back  and  say,  with 
genuine  exasperation: 
21 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"Now,  look  here,  Aunt  Anna,  this 
is  really  too  bad  1  Here  we  are,  with  a 
whole  lot  of  beer-soup,  which  we  don't 
care  about  in  the  least  and  which  we 
would  be  very  glad  to  get  rid  of,  if 
we  only  knew  some  one  who  would 
have  it.  You  are  the  only  one  that 
knows  of  anybody.  You  know  a  poor 
boy  who  would  dance  for  joy  if  he 
got  some  beer-soup.  You  know  hun- 
dreds. But  you  won't  tell  us  their 
names  or  where  they  live." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"And  you  yourself  sit  quite  calmly 
eating  two  whole  helpings,  though 
you  know  quite  well  that  you're 
going  to  have  an  omelette  to  follow. 
That's  really  very  naughty  of  you, 
Aunt  Anna." 

Aunt  Anna  chokes  with  annoyance. 
My  little  boy  locks  his  teeth  with  a 

22 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

snap  and  looks  with  every  mark  of 
disgust  at  that  wicked  old  woman. 

And  I  turn  with  calm  earnestness  to 
his  mother  and  say: 

"After  this,  it  would  be  most  im- 
proper for  us  ever  to  have  beer-soup 
here  again.  We  don't  care  for  it  and 
there  are  hundreds  of  little  boys  who 
love  it.  If  it  must  be  made,  then 
Aunt  Anna  must  come  every  Satur- 
day and  fetch  it.  She  knows  where 
the  boys  live." 

The  omelette  is  eaten  in  silence, 
after  which  Aunt  Anna  shakes  the 
dust  from  her  shoes.  She  won't  have 
any  coffee  to-day. 

While  she  is  standing  in  the  hall  and 
putting  on  her  endless  wraps,  a  last 
doubt  arises  in  my  little  boy's  soul. 
He  opens  his  green  eyes  wide  before 
her  face  and  whispers : 

23 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"Aunt  Anna,  where  do  the  boys 
live?" 

Aunt  Anna  pinches  him  and  is 
shocked  and  goes  off,  having-  suf- 
fered a  greater  defeat  than  she  can 
ever  repair. 


CHAPTER  V 

MY  little  boy  comes  into  my  room 
and  tells  me,  with  a  very  long  face, 
that  Jean  is  dead.  And  we  put  all 
nonsense  on  one  side  and  hurry  away 
to  the  Klampenborg  train,  to  go 
where  Jean  is. 

For  Jean  is  the  biggest  dog  that  has 
lived  for  some  time. 

He  once  bit  a  boy  so  hard  that  the 
boy  still  walks  lame.  He  once  bit 
his  own  master.  He  could  give  such 
a  look  out  of  his  eyes  and  open  such 
a  mouth  that  there  was  no  more  hor- 
rible sight  in  the  world.  And  then  he 
would  be  the  mildest  of  the  mild :  my 
little  boy  could  put  his  hand  in  his 

25 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

mouth  and  ride  on  his  back  and  pull 
his  tail. 

When  we  get  there,  we  hear  that 
Jean  is  already  buried. 

We  look  at  each  other  in  dismay,  to 
think  how  quickly  that  happens !  And 
we  go  to  the  grave,  which  is  in  the 
grounds  of  the  factory,  where  the  tall 
chimneys  stand. 

We  sit  down  and  can't  understand 
it. 

We  tell  each  other  all  the  stories 
that  we  know  of  Jean's  wonderful 
size  and  strength.  The  one  remem- 
bers this,  the  other  that.  And,  as  each 
story  is  told,  the  whole  thing  becomes 
only  more  awful  and  obscure. 

At  last  we  go  home  by  train. 

Besides  ourselves,  there  is  a  kind  old 
gentleman  in  the  compartment,  who 
would  like  to  make  friends  with  my 

20 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

little  boy.  But  the  boy  has  nothing  to 
talk  about  to  the  kind  old  gentleman. 
He  stands  at  the  window,  which 
comes  just  under  his  chin,  and  stares 
out. 

His  eyes  light  upon  some  tall  chim- 
neys: 

"That's  where  Jean  is  buried,"  he 
says. 

"Yes." 

The  landscape  flies  past.  He  can 
think  only  of  that  and  see  only  that 
and,  when  some  more  chimneys  ap- 
pear, he  says  again: 

"That's  where  Jean  is  buried." 

"No,  my  little  friend,"  says  the  kind 
old  gentleman.  "That  was  over 
there." 

The  boy  looks  at  him  with  surprise. 
I  hasten  to  reassure  him: 

"Those  are  Jean's  chimneys,"  I  say. 

27 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

And,  while  he  is  looking  out  again, 
I  take  the  old  gentleman  to  the  fur- 
ther corner  of  the  compartment  and 
tell  him  the  state  of  the  case. 

I  tell  him  that,  if  I  live,  I  hope,  in 
years  to  come,  to  explain  to  the  boy 
the  difference  between  Petersen's  and 
Hansen's  factories  and,  should  I  die, 
I  will  confidently  leave  that  part  of 
his  education  to  others.  Yes,  even 
if  he  should  never  learn  this  differ- 
ence, I  would  still  be  resigned.  To- 
day it  is  a  question  of  other  and  more 
important  matters.  The  strongest, 
the  most  living  thing  he  knew  is 
dead.  .  .  . 

"Really?"  says  the  old  gentleman, 
sympathetically.  "A  relation,  per- 
haps?" 

"Yes,"  I  say.  "Jean  is  dead,  a 
dog " 

28 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"A  dog?" 

"It  is  not  because  of  the  dog — don't 
you  understand? — but  of  death, 
which  he  sees  for  the  first  time :  death, 
with  all  its  might,  its  mystery.  ..." 

"Father,"  says  my  little  boy  and 
turns  his  head  towards  us.  "When  do 
we  die?" 

"When  we  grow  old,"  says  the  kind 
old  gentleman. 

"No,"  says  the  boy.  "Einar  has  a 
brother,  at  home,  in  the  courtyard, 
and  he  is  dead.  And  he  was  only  a 
little  boy." 

"Then  Einar's  brother  was  so  good 
and  learnt  such  a  lot  that  he  was 
already  fit  to  go  to  Heaven,"  says  the 
old  gentleman. 

"Mind  you  don't  become  too  good," 
I  say  and  laugh  and  tap  my  little 
boy  in  the  stomach. 

29 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

And  my  little  boy  laughs  too  and 
goes  back  to  his  window,  where  new 
chimneys  rise  over  Jean's  grave. 

But  I  take  the  old  gentleman  by  the 
shoulders  and  forbid  him  most  strict- 
ly to  talk  to  my  little  boy  again.  I 
give  up  trying  to  make  him  under- 
stand me.  I  just  shake  him.  He  eyes 
the  communication-cord  and,  when 
we  reach  the  station,  hurries  away. 

I  go  with  my  little  boy,  holding  his 
hand,  through  the  streets  full  of  live 
people.  In  the  evening,  I  sit  on  the 
edge  of  his  bed  and  talk  with  him 
about  that  incomprehensible  thing: 
Jean,  who  is  dead;  Jean,  who  was  so 
much  alive,  so  strong,  so  big.  .  .  . 


30 


CHAPTER  VI 

OUR  courtyard  is  full  of  children 
and  my  little  boy  has  picked  a  bosom- 
friend  out  of  the  band:  his  name  is 
Einar  and  he  can  be  as  good  as 
another. 

My  little  boy  admires  him  and  Einar 
allows  himself  to  be  admired,  so  that 
the  friendship  is  established  on  the 
only  proper  basis. 

"Einar  says  .  .  .  Einar  thinks  .  .  . 
Einar  does,"  is  the  daily  refrain;  and 
we  arrange  our  little  life  accordingly. 

"I  can't  see  anything  out  of  the  way 
in  Einar,"  says  the  mother  of  my  lit- 
tle boy. 

"Nor  can  I,"  say  I.  "But  our  little 

31 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

boy  can  and  that  is  enough.  I  once 
had  a  friend  who  could  see  nothing 
at  all  charming  in  you.  And  you 
yourself,  if  I  remember  right,  had 
three  friends  who  thought  your  taste 
inexcusable.  Luckily  for  our  little 
boy " 

"Luckily!" 

"It  is  the  feeling  that  counts,"  I  go 
on  lecturing,  "and  not  the  object." 

"Thanks!"  she  says. 

Now  something  big  and  unusual 
takes  place  in  our  courtyard  and 
makes  an  extraordinary  impression 
on  the  children  and  gives  their  small 
brains  heaps  to  struggle  with  for 
many  a  long  day. 

The  scarlatina  comes. 

And  scarlatina  is  not  like  a  pain  in 
your  stomach,  when  you  have  eaten 
too  many  pears,  or  like  a  cold,  when 

32 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

you  have  forgotten  to  put  on  your 
jacket.  Scarlatina  is  something  quite 
different,  something  powerful  and 
terrible.  It  comes  at  night  and  takes 
a  little  boy  who  was  playing  quite 
happily  that  same  evening.  And  then 
the  little  boy  is  gone. 

Perhaps  a  funny  carriage  comes 
driving  in  through  the  gate,  with 
two  horses  and  a  coachman  and  two 
men  with  bright  brass  buttons  on 
their  coats.  The  two  men  take  out 
of  the  carriage  a  basket,  with  a  red 
blanket  and  white  sheets,  and  carry 
it  up  to  where  the  boy  lives.  Present- 
ly, they  carry  the  basket  down  again 
and  then  the  boy  is  inside.  But  no- 
body can  see  him,  because  the  sheet 
is  over  his  face.  The  basket  is  shoved 
into  the  carriage,  which  is  shut  with  a 
bang,  and  away  goes  the  carriage 

33 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

with  the  boy,  while  his  mother  dries 
her  eyes  and  goes  up  to  the  others. 

Perhaps  no  carriage  comes.  But 
then  the  sick  boy  is  shut  up  in  his 
room  and  no  one  may  go  to  him  for 
a  long  time,  because  he  is  infectious. 
And  any  one  can  understand  that 
this  must  be  terribly  sad. 

The  children  in  the  courtyard  talk 
of  nothing  else. 

They  talk  with  soft  voices  and  faces 
full  of  mystery,  because  they  know 
nothing  for  certain.  They  hear  that 
one  of  them,  who  rode  away  in  the 
carriage,  is  dead;  but  that  makes  no 
more  impression  on  them  than  when 
one  of  them  falls  ill  and  disappears. 

Day  by  day,  the  little  band  is  being 
thinned  out  and  not  one  of  them 
has  yet  come  back. 

I  stand  at  my  open  window  and  look 

34 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

at  my  little  boy,  who  is  sitting  on  the 
steps  below  with  his  friend.  They 
have  their  arms  around  each  other's 
necks  and  see  no  one  except  each 
other;  that  is  to  say,  Einar  sees  him- 
self and  my  little  boy  sees  Einar. 

"If  you  fall  ill,  I  will  come  and  see 
you,"  says  my  little  boy. 

"No,  you  won't!" 

"I  will  come  and  see  you." 

His  eyes  beam  at  this  important 
promise.  Einar  cries  as  though  he 
were  already  ill. 

And  the  next  day  he  is  ill. 

He  lies  in  a  little  room  all  by  him- 
self. No  one  is  allowed  to  go  to 
him.  A  red  curtain  hangs  before 
the  window. 

My  little  boy  sits  alone  on  the  steps 
outside  and  stares  up  at  the  curtain. 
His  hands  are  thrust  deep  into  his 

35 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

pockets.  He  does  not  care  to  play  and 
he  speaks  to  nobody. 

And  I  walk  up  and  down  the  room, 
uneasy  as  to  what  will  come  next. 

"You  are  anxious  about  our  little 
boy,"  says  his  mother.  "And  it  will 
be  a  miracle  if  he  escapes." 

"It's  not  that.  We've  all  had  a  touch 
of  scarlatina." 

But  just  as  I  want  to  talk  to  her 
about  it,  I  hear  a  fumbling  with  the 
door-handle  which  there  is  no  mistak- 
ing and  then  he  stands  before  us  in 
the  room. 

I  know  you  so  well,  my  little  boy, 
when  you  come  in  sideways  like  that, 
with  a  long  face,  and  go  and  sit  in  a 
corner  and  look  at  the  two  people 
who  owe  so  much  happiness  to  you— 
look  from  one  to  the  other.  Your  eyes 
are  greener  than  usual.  You  can't  find 

36 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

your  words  and  you  sit  huddled  up 
and  you  are  ever  so  good. 

"Mother,  is  Einar  ill?" 

"Yes.  But  he  will  soon  be  better 
again.  The  doctor  says  that  he  is  not 
so  bad." 

"Is  he  infectious,  Mother?" 

"Yes,  he  is.  His  little  sister  has  been 
sent  to  the  country,  so  that  she  may 
not  fall  ill  too.  No  one  is  allowed  to 
go  to  him  except  his  mother,  who 
gives  him  his  milk  and  his  medicine 
and  makes  his.  bed." 

A  silence. 

The  mother  of  my  little  boy  looks 
down  at  her  book  and  suspects  no- 
thing. The  father  of  my  little  boy 
looks  in  great  suspense  from  the 
window. 

"Mother,  I  want  to  go  to  Einar." 

"You  can't  go  there,  my  little  man. 

37 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

You  hear,  he's  infectious.  Just  think, 
if  you  should  fall  ill  yourself!  Einar 
isn't  bothering  at  all  about  chatting 
with  you.  He  sleeps  the  whole  day 
long." 

"But  when  he  wakes,  Mother?" 

"You  can't  go  up  there." 

This  tells  upon  him  and  he  is  nearly 
crying.  I  see  that  the  time  has  come 
for  me  to  come  to  his  rescue: 

"Have  you  promised  Einar  to  go 
and  see  him?"  I  ask. 

"Yes,  Father.  .  .  ." 

He  is  over  his  trouble.  His  eyes 
beam.  He  stands  erect  and  glad  be- 
side me  and  puts  his  little  hand  in 
mine. 

"Then  of  course  you  must  do  so,"  I 
say,  calmly.  "So  soon  as  he  wakes." 

Our  mother  closes  her  book  with  a 
bang: 

38 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"Go  down  to  the  courtyard  and 
play,  while  Father  and  I  have  a  talk." 

The  boy  runs  away. 

And  she  comes  up  to  me  and  lays 
her  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  says, 
earnestly : 

"I  daren't  do  that,  do  you  hear?" 

And  I  take  her  hand  and  kiss  it  and 
say,  quite  as  earnestly : 

"And  I  daren't  refuse!" 

We  look  at  each  other,  we  two,  who 
share  the  empire,  the  power  and  the 
glory. 

"I  heard  our  little  boy  make  his 
promise,"  I  say,  "I  saw  him.  Sir 
Galahad  himself  was  not  more  in 
earnest  when  swearing  his  knightly 
oath.  You  see,  we  have  no  choice 
here.  He  can  catch  the  scarlatina  in 
any  case  and  it  is  not  even  certain 
that  he  will  catch  it.  .  .  ." 

39 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"If  it  was  diphtheria,  you  wouldn't 
talk  like  that!" 

"You  may  be  right.  But  am  I  to 
become  a  thief  for  the  sake  of  a 
nickel,  because  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
could  resist  the  temptation  to  steal  a 
kingdom?" 

"You  would  not  find  a  living  being 
to  agree  with  you." 

"Except  yourself.  And  that  is  all  I 
want.  The  infection  is  really  only  a 
side  matter.  It  can  come  this  way  or 
that  way.  We  can't  safeguard  him, 
come  what  may.  ..." 

"But  are  we  to  send  him  straight  to 
where  it  is?" 

"We're  not  doing  that;  it's  not  we 
who  are  doing  that." 

She  is  very  much  excited.  I  put  my 
arm  round  her  waist  and  we  walk  up 
and  down  the  room  together: 

40 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

"Darling,  to-day  our  little  boy  may 
meet  with  a  great  misfortune.  He 
may  receive  a  shock  from  which  he 
will  never  recover.  ..." 

"That  is  true,"  she  says. 

"If  he  doesn't  keep  his  promise,  the 
misfortune  has  occurred.  It  would 
already  be  a  misfortune  if  he  could 
ever  think  that  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  break  it,  if  it  appeared  to  him  that 
there  was  anything  great  or  remark- 
able about  keeping  it." 

"Yes,  but.  .  .  ." 

"Darling,  the  world  is  full  of  care- 
ful persons.  One  step  more  and  they 
become  mere  paltry  people.  Shall  we 
turn  that  into  a  likely  thing,  into  a 
virtue,  for  our  little  boy?  His  prom- 
ise was  stupid:  let  that  pass.  .  .  ." 

"He  is  so  little." 

"Yes,  that  he  is ;  and  God  be  praised 

41 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

for  it !  Think  what  good  luck  it  is  that 
he  did  not  know  the  danger,  when  he 
made  his  promise,  that  he  does  not 
understand  it  now,  when  he  is  keep- 
ing it.  What  a  lucky  beggar!  He  is 
learning  to  keep  his  word,  just  as  he 
has  learnt  to  be  clean.  By  the  time 
that  he  is  big  enough  to  know  his 
danger,  it  will  be  an  indispensable 
habit  with  him.  And  he  gains  all  that 
at  the  risk  of  a  little  scarlatina." 

She  lays  her  head  on  my  shoulder 
and  says  nothing  more. 

That  afternoon,  she  takes  our  little 
boy  by  the  hand  and  goes  up  with  him 
to  Einar.  They  stand  on  the  thresh- 
old of  his  room,  bid  him  good-day 
and  ask  him  how  he  is. 

Einar  is  not  at  all  well  and  does  not 
look  up  and  does  not  answer. 

But  that  does  not  matter  in  the  least. 

42 


CHAPTER  VII 

MY  little  boy  is  given  a  cent  by 
Petrine  with  instructions  to  go  to  the 
baker's  and  buy  some  biscuits. 

By  that  which  fools  call  an  accident, 
but  which  is  really  a  divine  miracle, 
if  miracles  there  be,  I  overhear  this 
instruction.  Then  I  stand  at  my 
window  and  see  him  cross  the  street 
in  his  slow  way  and  with  bent  head; 
only,  he  goes  slower  than  usual  and 
with  his  head  bent  more  deeply  be- 
tween his  small  shoulders. 

He  stands  long  outside  the  baker's 
window,  where  there  is  a  confused 
heap  of  lollipops  and  chocolates  and 
sugar-sticks  and  other  things  created 
for  a  small  boy's  delight.  Then  he 

43 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

lifts  his  young  hand,  opens  the  door, 
disappears  and  presently  returns  with 
a  great  paper  bag,  eating  with  all  his 
might. 

And  I,  who,  Heaven  be  praised, 
have  myself  been  a  thief  in  my  time, 
run  all  over  the  house  and  give  my 
orders. 

My  little  boy  enters  the  kitchen. 

"Put  the  biscuits  on  the  table,"  says 
Petrine. 

He  stands  still  for  a  moment  and 
looks  at  her  and  at  the  table  and  at 
the  floor.  Then  he  goes  silently  to  his 
mother. 

"You're  quite  a  big  boy  now,  that 
you  can  buy  biscuits  for  Petrine," 
says  she,  without  looking  up  from 
her  work. 

His  face  is  very  long,  but  he  says 
nothing.  He  comes  quietly  in  to  me 

44 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

and  sits  down  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair. 

"You  have  been  over  the  way,  at  the 
baker's." 

He  comes  up  to  me,  where  I  am  sit- 
ting and  reading,  and  presses  himself 
against  me.  I  do  not  look  at  him,  but 
I  can  perceive  what  is  going  on  inside 
him. 

"What  did  you  buy  at  the  baker's?" 

"Lollipops." 

"Well,  I  never!  What  fun!  Why, 
you  had  some  lollipops  this  morning. 
Who  gave  you  the  money  this  time?" 

"Petrine." 

"Really!  Well,  Petrine  is  certainly 
very  fond  of  you.  Do  you  remember 
the  lovely  ball  she  gave  you  on  your 
birthday?" 

"Father,  Petrine  told  me  to  buy  a 
cent's  worth  of  biscuits." 

45 


MY    LITTLE    EOT 

"Oh  dear!" 

It  is  very  quiet  in  the  room.  My  lit- 
tle boy  cries  bitterly  and  I  look  anx- 
iously before  me,  stroking  his  hair  the 
while. 

"Now  you  have  fooled  Petrine 
badly.  She  wants  those  biscuits,  of 
course,  for  her  cooking.  She  thinks 
they're  on  the  kitchen-table  and, 
when  she  goes  to  look,  she  won't  find 
any.  Mother  gave  her  a  cent  for  bis- 
cuits. Petrine  gave  you  a  cent  for 
biscuits  and  you  go  and  spend  it  on 
lollipops.  What  are  we  to  do?" 

He  looks  at  me  in  despair,  holds  me 
tight,  says  a  thousand  things  without 
speaking  a  word. 

"If  only  we  had  a  cent,"  I  say. 
"Then  you  could  rush  over  the  way 
and  fetch  the  biscuits." 

"Father.  .  .  ."  His  eyes  open  very 

46 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

wide  and  he  speaks  so  softly  that 
I  can  hardly  hear  him.  "There 
is  a  cent  on  mother's  writing- 
table." 

"Is  there?"  I  cry  with  delight.  But, 
at  the  same  moment,  I  shake  my  head 
and  my  face  is  overcast  again.  "That 
is  no  use  to  us,  my  little  boy.  That 
cent  belongs  to  mother.  The  other 
was  Petrine's.  People  are  so  terribly 
fond  of  their  money  and  get  so 
angry  when  you  take  it  from  them. 
I  can  understand  that,  for  you  can 
buy  such  an  awful  lot  of  things  with 
money.  You  can  get  biscuits  and  lolli- 
pops and  clothes  and  toys  and  half 
the  things  in  the  world.  And  it  is  not 
so  easy  either  to  make  money.  Most 
people  have  to  drudge  all  day  long 
to  earn  as  much  as  they  want.  So  it  is 
no  wonder  that  they  get  angry  when 

47 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

you  take  it.  Especially  when  it  is  only 
for  lollipops.  Now  Petrine  .  .  .  she 
has  to  spend  the  whole  day  cleaning 
rooms  and  cooking  dinner  and  wash- 
ing up  before  she  gets  her  wages. 
And  out  of  that  she  has  to  buy  clothes 
and  shoes  .  .  .  and  you  know  that 
she  has  a  little  girl  whom  she  has  to 
pay  for  at  Madam  Olsen's.  She  must 
certainly  have  saved  very  cleverly 
before  she  managed  to  buy  you  that 
ball." 

We  walk  up  and  down  the  room, 
hand  in  hand.  He  keeps  on  falling 
over  his  legs,  for  he  can't  take  his 
eyes  from  my  face. 

"Father  .  .  .  haven't  you  got  a 
cent?" 

I  shake  my  head  and  give  him  my 
purse : 

"Look  for  yourself,"  I  say.  "There's 

48 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

not  a  cent  in  it.  1  spent  the  last  this 
morning." 

We  walk  up  and  down.  We  sit  down 
and  get  up  and  walk  about  again. 
We  are  very  gloomy.  We  are  bowed 
down  with  sorrow  and  look  at  each 
other  in  great  perplexity. 

"There  might  be  one  hidden  away 
in  a  drawer  somewhere,"  I  say. 

We  fly  to  the  drawers. 

We  pull  out  thirty  drawers  and 
rummage  through  them.  We  fling 
papers  in  disorder,  higgledy-pig- 
gledy, on  the  floor:  what  do  we  care? 
If  only,  if  only  we  find  a  cent.  .  .  . 

Hurrah ! 

We  both,  at  last,  grasp  at  a  cent, 
as  though  we  would  fight  for  it  ... 
we  have  found  a  beautiful,  large 
cent.  Our  eyes  gleam  and  we  laugh 
through  our  tears. 

49 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

"Hurry  now,"  I  whisper.  "You  can 
go  this  way  .  .  .  through  my  door. 
Then  run  back  quickly  up  the  kitchen 
stairs,  with  the  biscuits,  and  put  them 
on  the  table.  I  shall  call  Petrine,  so 
that  she  doesn't  see.  And  we  won't 
tell  anybody." 

He  is  down  the  stairs  before  I  have 
done  speaking.  I  run  after  him  and 
call  to  him: 

"Wasn't  it  a  splendid  thing  that  we 
found  that  cent?"  I  say. 

"Yes,"  he  answers,  earnestly. 

And  he  laughs  for  happiness  and  I 
laugh  too  and  his  legs  go  like  drum- 
sticks across  to  the  baker's. 

From  my  window,  I  see  him  come 
back,  at  the  same  pace,  with  red 
cheeks  and  glad  eyes.  He  has  com- 
mitted his  first  crime.  He  has  under- 
stood it.  And  he  has  not  the  sting  of 

50 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

remorse  in  his  soul  nor  the  black 
cockade  of  forgiveness  in  his  cap. 

The  mother  of  my  little  boy  and  I 
sit  until  late  at  night  talking  about 
money,  which  seems  to  us  the  most 
difficult  matter  of  all. 

For  our  little  boy  must  learn  to 
know  the  power  of  money  and  the 
glamour  of  money  and  the  joy  of 
money.  He  must  earn  much  money 
and  spend  much  money.  .  .  . 

Yet  there  were  two  people,  yes- 
terday, who  killed  a  man  to  rob 
him  of  four  dollars  and  thirty-seven 
cents. 


61 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  has  been  decreed  in  the  privy 
council  that  my  little  boy  shall  have 
a  weekly  income  of  one  cent.  Every 
Sunday  morning,  that  sum  shall  be 
paid  to  him,  free  of  income-tax,  out 
of  the  treasury  and  he  has  leave  to 
dispose  of  it  entirely  at  his  own 
pleasure. 

He  receives  this  announcement  with 
composure  and  sits  apart  for  a  while 
and  ponders  on  it. 

"Every  Sunday?"  he  asks. 

"Every  Sunday." 

"All  the  time  till  the  summer  holi- 
days?" 

"All  the  time  till  the  summer  holi- 
days." 

52 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

In  the  summer  holidays,  he  is  to  go 
to  the  country,  to  stay  with  his  god- 
mother, in  whose  house  he  was 
pleased  to  allow  himself  to  be  born. 
The  summer  holidays  are,  conse- 
quently, the  limits  of  his  calculation 
of  time:  beyond  them  lies,  for  the 
moment,  his  Nirvana. 

And  we  employ  this  restricted  hori- 
zon of  ours  to  further  our  true  happi- 
ness. 

That  is  to  say,  we  calculate,  with 
the  aid  of  the  almanac,  that,  if  every- 
thing goes  as  heretofore,  there  will 
be  fifteen  Sundays  before  the  sum- 
mer holidays.  We  arrange  a  drawer 
with  fifteen  compartments  and  in 
each  compartment  we  put  one  cent. 
Thus  we  know  exactly  what  we  have 
and  are  able  at  any  time  to  survey 
our  financial  status. 

53 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

And,  when  he  sees  that  great  lot  of 
cents  lying  there,  my  little  boy's 
breast  is  filled  with  mad  delight.  He 
feels  endlessly  rich,  safe  for  a  long 
time.  The  courtyard  rings  with  his 
bragging,  with  all  that  he  is  going  to 
do  with  his  money.  His  special  favour- 
ites are  invited  to  come  up  and  view 
his  treasure. 

The  first  Sunday  passes  in  a  normal 
fashion,  as  was  to  be  expected. 

He  takes  his  cent  and  turns  it 
straightway  into  a  stick  of  chocolate 
of  the  best  sort,  with  almonds  on  it 
and  sugar,  in  short,  an  ideal  stick  in 
every  way.  The  whole  performance 
is  over  in  five  minutes:  by  that  time, 
the  stick  of  chocolate  is  gone,  with 
the  sole  exception  of  a  remnant  in 
the  corners  of  our  mouth,  which  our 
ruthless  mother  wipes  away,  and  a 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

stain  on  our  collar,  which  annoys 
us. 

He  sits  by  me,  with  a  vacant  little 
face,  and  swings  his  legs.  I  open  the 
drawer  and  look  at  the  empty  space 
and  at  the  fourteen  others : 

"So  that's  gone,"  I  say. 

My  accent  betrays  a  certain  melan- 
choly, which  finds  an  echo  in  his 
breast.  But  he  does  not  deliver  him- 
self of  it  at  once. 

"Father  ...  is  it  long  till  next 
Sunday?" 

"Very  long,  my  boy;  ever  so  many 
days." 

We  sit  a  little,  steeped  in  our 
own  thoughts.  Then  I  say,  pensive- 

iy= 

"Now,  if  you  had  bought  a  top,  you 
would  perhaps  have  had  more  pleas- 
ure out  of  it.  I  know  a  place  where 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

there  is  a  lovely  top :  red,  with  a  green 
ring"  round  it.  It  is  just  over  the  way, 
in  the  toy-shop.  I  saw  it  yesterday.  I 
should  be  greatly  mistaken  if  the  toy- 
man was  not  willing  to  sell  it  for  a 
cent.  And  you've  got  a  whip,  you 
know." 

We  go  over  the  way  and  look  at  the 
top  in  the  shop-window.  It  is  really  a 
splendid  top. 

"The  shop's  shut,"  says  my  little 
boy,  despondently. 

I  look  at  him  with  surprise : 

"Yes,  but  what  does  that  matter  to 
us?  Anyway,  we  can't  buy  the  top 
before  next  Sunday.  You  see,  you've 
spent  your  cent  on  chocolate.  Give 
me  your  handkerchief:  there's  still  a 
bit  on  your  cheek." 

There  is  no  more  to  be  said.  Crest- 
fallen and  pensively,  we  go  home. 

56 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

We  sit  a  long  time  at  the  dining- 
room  window,  from  which  we  can  see 
the  window  of  the  shop. 

During  the  course  of  the  week,  we 
look  at  the  top  daily,  for  it  does  not 
do  to  let  one's  love  grow  cold.  One 
might  so  easily  forget  it.  And  the  top 
shines  always  more  seductively.  We 
go  in  and  make  sure  that  the  price  is 
really  in  keeping  with  our  means.  We 
make  the  shopkeeper  take  a  solemn 
oath  to  keep  the  top  for  us  till  Sun- 
day morning,  even  if  boys  should 
come  and  bid  him  much  higher  sums 
for  it. 

On  Sunday  morning,  we  are  on  the 
spot  before  nine  o'clock  and  acquire 
our  treasure  with  trembling  hands. 
And  we  play  with  it  all  day  and  sleep 
with  it  at  night,  until,  on  Wednes- 
day morning,  it  disappears  without  a 

57 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

trace,  after  the  nasty  manner  which 
tops  have. 

When  the  turn  comes  of  the  next 
cent,  something  remarkable  hap- 
pens. 

There  is  a  boy  in  the  courtyard  who 
has  a  skipping-rope  and  my  little 
boy,  therefore,  wants  to  have  a  skip- 
ping-rope too.  But  this  is  a  difficult 
matter.  Careful  enquiries  establish 
the  fact  that  a  skipping-rope  of  the 
sort  used  by  the  upper  classes  is  no- 
where to  be  obtained  for  less  than 
five  cents. 

The  business  is  discussed  as  early  as 
Saturday: 

"It's  the  simplest  thing  in  the 
world,"  I  say.  "You  must  not  spend 
your  cent  to-morrow.  Next  Sunday 
you  must  do  the  same  and  the  next 
and  the  next.  On  the  Sunday  after 

58 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

that,  you  will  have  saved  your  five 
cents  and  can  buy  your  skipping- 
rope  at  once." 

"When  shall  I  get  my  skipping- 
rope  then?" 

"In  five  Sundays  from  now." 

He  says  nothing,  but  I  can  see  that 
he  does  not  think  my  idea  very  brill- 
iant. In  the  course  of  the  day,  he 
derives,  from  sources  unknown  to  me, 
an  acquaintance  with  financial  cir- 
cumstances which  he  serves  up  to  me 
on  Sunday  morning  in  the  following 
words : 

"Father,  you  must  lend  me  five 
cents  for  the  skipping-rope.  If  you 
will  lend  me  five  cents  for  the  skip- 
ping-rope, I'll  give  you  forty  cents 
back.  .  .  ." 

He  stands  close  to  me,  very  red  in 
the  face  and  quite  confused.  I  per- 

59 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

ceive  that  he  is  ripe  for  falling  into 
the  claws  of  the  usurers : 

"I  don't  do  that  sort  of  business,  my 
boy,"  I  say.  "It  wouldn't  do  you  any 
good  either.  And  you're  not  even  in 
a  position  to  do  it,  for  you  have  only 
thirteen  cents,  as  you  know." 

He  collapses  like  one  whose  last  hope 
is  gone. 

"Let  us  just  see,"  I  say. 

And  we  go  to  our  drawer  and  stare 
at  it  long  and  deeply. 

"We  might  perhaps  manage  it  this 
way,  that  I  give  you  five  cents  now. 
And  then  I  should  have  your  cent 
and  the  next  four  cents.  .  .  ." 

He  interrupts  me  with  a  loud  shout. 
I  take  out  my  purse,  give  him  five 
cents  and  take  one  cent  out  of  the 
drawer : 

"That  won't  be  pleasant  next  Sun- 
oo 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

day,"  I  say,  "and  the  next  and  the 
next  and  the  next.  ..." 

But  the  thoughtless  youth  is  gone. 

Of  course,  the  instalments  of  his 
debt  are  paid  off  with  great  cere- 
mony. He  is  always  on  the  spot  him- 
self when  the  drawer  is  opened  and 
sees  how  the  requisite  cent  is  removed 
and  finds  its  way  into  my  pocket  in- 
stead of  his. 

The  first  time,  all  goes  well.  It  is 
simply  an  amusing  thing  that  I 
should  have  the  cent;  and  the  skip- 
ping-rope is  still  fresh  in  his  memory, 
because  of  the  pangs  which  he  under- 
went before  its  purchase.  Next  Sun- 
day, already  the  thing  is  not  quite  so 
pleasant  and,  when  the  fourth  instal- 
ment falls  due,  my  little  boy's  face 
looks  very  gloomy: 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  I  ask. 

61 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"I  should  so  much  like  a  stick  of 
chocolate,"  he  says,  without  looking 
at  me. 

"Is  that  all?  You  can  get  one  in  a 
fortnight.  By  that  time,  you  will 
have  paid  for  the  skipping-rope 
and  the  cent  will  be  your  own 
again." 

"I  should  so  much  like  to  have  the 
stick  of  chocolate  now." 

Of  course,  I  am  full  of  the  sincerest 
compassion,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
What's  gone  is  gone.  We  saw  it  with 
our  own  eyes  and  we  know  exactly 
where  it  has  gone  to.  And,  that  Sun- 
day morning,  we  part  in  a  dejected 
mood. 

Later  in  the  day,  however,  I  find 
him  standing  over  the  drawer  with 
raised  eyebrows  and  a  pursed-up 
mouth.  I  sit  down  quietly  and  wait. 

62 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

And  I  do  not  have  to  wait  long  before 
I  learn  that  his  development  as  an 
economist  is  taking  quite  its  normal 
course. 

"Father,  suppose  we  moved  the  cent 
now  from  here  into  this  Sunday's 
place  and  I  took  it  and  bought  the 
chocolate-stick.  ..." 

"Why,  then  you  won't  have  your 
cent  for  the  other  Sunday." 

"I  don't  mind  that,  Father.  .  .  ." 

We  talk  about  it,  and  then  we  do  it. 
And,  with  that,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
we  enter  upon  the  most  reckless  pecu- 
lations. 

The  very  next  Sunday,  he  is  clever 
enough  to  take  the  furthest  cent, 
which  lies  just  before  the  summer 
holidays.  He  pursues  the  path  of  vice 
without  a  scruple,  until,  at  last,  the 
blow  falls  and  five  long  Sundays  come 

63 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

in  a  row  without  the  least  chance  of 
a  cent. 

Where  should  they  come  from? 
They  were  there.  We  know  that. 
They  are  gone.  We  have  spent  them 
ourselves. 

But,  during  those  drab  days  of  pov- 
erty, we  sit  every  morning  over  the 
empty  drawer  and  talk  long  and  pro- 
foundly about  that  painful  phenom- 
enon, which  is  so  simple  and  so  easy 
to  understand  and  which  one  must 
needs  make  the  best  of. 

And  we  hope  and  trust  that  our  ex- 
perience will  do  us  good,  when,  after 
our  trip,  we  start  a  new  set  of  cents. 


64 


CHAPTER  IX 

MY  little  boy  is  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried. 

She  is  a  big,  large-limbed  young 
woman,  three  years  his  senior,  and  no 
doubt  belongs  to  the  minor  aristoc- 
racy. Her  name  is  Gertie.  By  a  mis- 
understanding, however,  which  is 
pardonable  at  his  age  and  moreover 
quite  explained  by  Gertie's  appear- 
ance, he  calls  her  Dirty — little  Dirty 
—and  by  this  name  she  will  be  handed 
down  to  history. 

He  met  her  on  the  boulevard,  where 
he  was  playing,  in  the  fine  spring 
weather,  with  other  children.  His  rea- 
son for  the  engagement  is  good 
enough : 

65 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

"I  wanted  a  girl  for  myself,"  he 
says. 

Either  I  know  very  little  of  man- 
kind or  he  has  made  a  fortunate 
choice.  No  one  is  likely  to  take  Dirty 
from  him. 

Like  the  gentleman  that  he  is,  he  at 
once  brings  the  girl  home  to  us  and 
introduces  her.  In  consequence  of  the 
formality  of  the  occasion,  he  does  not 
go  in  by  the  kitchen  way,  as  usual, 
but  rings  the  front-door  bell.  I  open 
the  door  myself.  There  he  stands 
on  the  mat,  hand  in  hand  with 
Dirty,  his  bride,  and,  with  radiant 
eyes: 

"Father,"  he  says,  "this  is  little 
Dirty.  She  is  my  sweetheart.  We  are 
going  to  be  married." 

"That  is  what  people  usually  do 
with  their  sweethearts,"  I  answer, 

66 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

philosophically.  "Pray,  Dirty,  come 
in  and  be  welcomed  by  the  family." 

"Wipe  your  feet,  Dirty,"  says  my 
little  boy. 

The  mother  of  my  little  boy  does 
not  think  much  of  the  match.  She  has 
even  spoken  of  forbidding  Dirty  the 
house. 

"We  can't  do  that,"  I  say.  "I  am 
not  in  ecstasies  over  it  either,  but 
it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  it  will 
last." 

"Yes,  but  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  remember  what  little  use  it 
was  when  your  mother  forbade  me  the 
house?  We  used  to  meet  in  the  most 
incredible  places  and  kiss  each  other 
terribly.  I  can  quite  understand  that 
you  have  forgotten,  but  you  ought  to 
bear  it  in  mind  now  that  your  son's 
beginning.  And  you  ought  to  value 

67 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

the  loyalty  of  his  behaviour  towards 
his  aged  parents." 

"My  dear!  .  .  ." 

"And  then  I  must  remind  you  that 
it  is  spring.  The  trees  are  budding. 
You  can't  see  it,  perhaps,  from  the 
kitchen-window  or  from  your  work- 
table,  but  I,  who  go  about  all  day, 
have  noticed  it.  You  know  what 
Byron  says: 

March  has  its  hares,  and  May  must  have 
its  heroine." 

And  so  Dirty  is  accepted. 

But,  when  she  calls,  she  has  first  to 
undergo  a  short  quarantine,  while 
the  mother  of  my  little  boy  washes 
her  and  combs  her  hair  thoroughly. 

Dirty  does  not  like  this,  but  the  boy 
does.  He  looks  on  with  extraordinary 
interest  and  at  once  complains  if  there 

68 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

is  a  place  that  has  escaped  the  sponge. 
I  can't  make  out  what  goes  on  within 
him  on  these  occasions.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  cruelty  in  love;  and  he 
himself  hates  to  be  washed.  Perhaps 
he  is  wrapt  in  fancies  and  wants  to 
see  his  sweetheart  rise  daily  from  the 
waves,  like  Venus  Anadyomene.  Per- 
haps it  is  merely  his  sense  of  duty: 
last  Friday,  in  cold  blood,  he  allowed 
Dirty  to  wait  outside,  on  the  step,  for 
half  an  hour,  until  his  mother  came 
home. 

Another  of  his  joys  is  to  see  Dirty 
eat. 

I  can  quite  understand  that.  Here, 
as  at  her  toilet,  there  is  some- 
thing worth  looking  at.  The  mother 
of  my  little  boy  and  I  would  be  glad 
too  to  watch  her,  if  there  were  any 
chance  of  giving  Dirty  her  fill.  But 

69 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

there  is  none.  At  least,  not  with  my 
income. 

When  I  see  all  that  food  disappear, 
without  as  much  as  a  shade  of  satis- 
faction coming  into  her  eyes,  I  trem- 
ble for  the  young  couple's  future. 
But  he  is  cheerful  and  unconcerned. 

Of  course,  there  are  also  clouds  in 
their  sky. 

A  few  days  ago,  they  were  sitting 
quietly  together  in  the  dining-room 
and  talking  of  their  wedding.  My 
little  boy  described  what  the  house 
would  be  like  and  the  garden  and 
the  horses.  Dirty  made  no  remarks 
and  she  had  no  grounds  for  doing 
so,  for  everything  was  particularly 
nice.  But,  after  that,  things  went 
wrong : 

"We  shall  have  fourteen  children," 
said  the  boy. 

70 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

"No,"  said  Dirty.  "We  shall  only 
have  two:  a  boy  and  a  girl." 

"I  want  to  have  fourteen." 

"I  won't  have  more  than  two." 

"Fourteen." 

"Two." 

There  was  no  coming  to  an  agree- 
ment. My  little  boy  was  speechless  at 
Dirty's  meanness.  And  Dirty  pinched 
her  lips  together  and  nodded  her 
head  defiantly.  Then  he  burst  into 
tears. 

I  could  have  explained  to  him  that 
Dirty,  wrho  sits  down  every  day  as 
the  seventh  at  the  children's  table  at 
home,  cannot  look  upon  children  with 
his  eyes,  as  things  forming  an  essen- 
tial part  of  every  well-regulated  fam- 
ily, but  must  regard  them  rather  as 
bandits  who  eat  up  other  people's 
food.  But  I  did  not  feel  entitled  to 

71 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

discuss  the  young  lady's  domestic  cir- 
cumstances unasked. 

One  good  thing  about  Dirty  is  that 
she  is  not  dependent  upon  her  family 
nor  they  upon  her.  It  has  not  yet  hap- 
pened that  any  enquiries  have  heen 
made  after  her,  however  long  she  re- 
mained with  us.  We  know  just  where 
she  lives  and  what  her  father's  name 
is.  Nothing  more. 

However,  we  notice  in  another  way 
that  our  daughter-in-law  is  not  with- 
out relations. 

Whenever,  for  instance,  wre  give  her 
a  pair  of  stockings  or  some  other 
article  of  clothing,  it  is  always  gone 
the  next  day;  and  so  on  until  all  the 
six  brothers  and  sisters  have  been 
supplied.  Xot  till  then  do  we  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Dirty  look  neat. 
She  has  been  so  long  accustomed  to 

72 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

going  shares  that  she  does  so  in  every 
conceivable  circumstance. 

And  I  console  the  mother  of  my  lit- 
tle boy  by  saying  that,  should  he  fall 
out  with  Dirty,  he  can  take  one  of  the 
sisters  and  that,  in  this  way,  nothing 
would  be  lost. 


CHAPTER  X 

MY  little  boy  confides  to  me  that  he 
would  like  a  pear. 

Now  pears  fall  within  his  mother's 
province  and  I  am  sure  that  he  has 
had  as  many  as  he  is  entitled  to. 
And  so  we  are  at  once  agreed  that 
what  he  wants  is  a  wholly  irrelevant, 
uncalled-for,  delightful  extra  pear. 

Unfortunately,  it  also  appears  that 
the  request  has  already  been  laid  be- 
fore Mamma  and  met  with  a  positive 
refusal. 

The  situation  is  serious,  but  not 
hopeless.  For  I  am  a  man  who  knows 
how  mean  is  the  supply  of  pears  to 
us  poor  wretched  children  of  men  and 
how  wonderful  an  extra  pear  tastes. 

74 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

And  I  am  glad  that  my  little  boy 
did  not  give  up  all  hope  of  the  pear 
at  the  first  obstacle.  I  can  see  by  the 
longing  in  his  green  eyes  how  big  the 
pear  is  and  I  reflect  with  lawful  pa- 
ternal pride  that  he  will  win  his  girl 
and  his  position  in  life  when  their 
time  comes. 

We  now  discuss  the  matter  care- 
fully. 

First  comes  the  prospect  of  stom- 
ach-ache : 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  says  he. 

I  quite  agree  with  his  view. 

Then  perhaps  Mother  will  be  angry. 

No,  Mother  is  never  angry.  She  is 
sorry;  and  that  is  not  nice.  But  then 
we  must  see  and  make  it  up  to  her  in 
another  way. 

So  we  slink  in  and  steal  the  pear. 

I  put  it  to  him  whether,  perhaps — 

75 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

when  we  have  eaten  the  pear — we 
ought  to  tell  Mother.  But  that  does 
not  appeal  to  him: 

"Then  I  shan't  get  one  this  even- 
ing," he  says. 

And  when  I  suggest  that,  possibly, 
Mother  might  be  impressed  wTith  such 
audacious  candour,  he  shakes  his  head 
decisively : 

"You  don't  know  Mother,"  he  says. 

So  I,  of  course,  have  nothing  to  say. 

Shortly  after  this,  the  mother  of  my 
little  boy  and  I  are  standing  at  the 
window  laughing  at  the  story. 

We  catch  sight  of  him  below,  in  the 
courtyard. 

He  is  sitting  on  the  steps  with  his 
arm  round  little  Dirty's  neck.  They 
have  shared  the  pear.  Now  they  are 
both  singing,  marvellously  out  of 
tune  and  with  a  disgustingly  senti- 

76 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

mental  expression  on  their  faces,  a 
song  which  Dirty  knows: 

For  riches  are  only  a  lo-oanjrom  Heaven 
And  poverty  is  a  reward. 

And  we  are  overcome  with  a  great 
sense  of  desolation. 

We  want  to  make  life  green  and 
pleasant  for  our  little  boy,  to  make 
his  eyes  open  wide  to  see  it,  his  hands 
strong  to  grasp  it.  But  we  feel  power- 
less in  the  face  of  all  the  contentment 
and  patience  and  resignation  that  are 
preached  from  cellar  to  garret,  in 
church  and  in  school :  all  those  second- 
rate  virtues,  which  may  lighten  an 
old  man's  last  few  steps  as  he  stum- 
bles on  towards  the  grave,  but  which 
are  only  so  many  shabby  lies  for  the 
young. 


77 


CHAPTER  XI 

DlRTY  is  paying  us  a  visit  and  my 
little  boy  is  sitting  at  her  feet. 

She  has  buried  her  fingers  in  her 
hair  and  is  reading,  reading,  read- 
ing. .  .  . 

She  is  learning  the  Ten  Command- 
ments by  heart.  She  stammers  and  re- 
peats herself,  with  eyes  fixed  in  her 
head  and  a  despairing  mouth: 

"Thou  shalt  .  .  .  Thou  shalt  not 
.  .  .  Thou  shalt  .  .  ." 

The  boy  watches  her  with  tender 
compassion. 

He  has  already  learnt  a  couple  of 
the  commandments  by  listening  to 
her  and  helps  her,  now  and  then,  with 

78 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

a  word.  Then  he  comes  to  me  and 
asks,  anxiously: 

"Father,  must  Dirty  do  all  that  the 
Ten  Commandments  say?" 

"Yes." 

He  sits  down  by  her  again.  His 
heart  is  overflowing  with  pity,  his 
£yes  are  moist.  She  does  not  look  at 
him,  but  plods  on  bravely: 

"Thou  shalt .  .  .  Thou  shalt  not .  .  ." 

"Father,  when  I  grow  big,  must  I 
also  do  all  that  the  Ten  Command- 
ments say?" 

"Ye-es." 

He  looks  at  me  in  utter  despair. 
Then  he  goes  back  to  Dirty  and  lis- 
tens, but  now  he  keeps  his  thoughts 
to  himself. 

Suddenly,  something  seems  to  flash 
across  his  mind. 

He  comes  to  me  again,   puts  his 

79 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

arms  on  my  knee  and  looks  with  his 
green  eyes  firmly  into  mine : 

"Father,  do  you  do  all  that  the  Ten 
Commandments  say?" 

"Ye-e-es." 

He  looks  like  a  person  whose  last 
hope  has  escaped  him.  I  would  so 
much  like  to  help  him;  but  what,  in 
Heaven's  name,  can  I  do? 

Then  he  collects  himself,  shakes  his 
head  a  little  and  says,  with  great  tears 
in  his  eyes : 

"Father,  I  don't  believe  that  I  can 
do  all  those  things  that  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments say." 

And  I  draw  him  to  me  and  we  cry 
together  because  life  is  so  difficult, 
while  Dirty  plods  away  like  a  good 
girl. 


80 


CHAPTER  XII 

THIS  we  all  know,  that  sin  came 
into  the  world  by  the  law. 

Dirty's  Ten  Commandments  have 
brought  it  to  us. 

When  she  comes,  she  now  always  has 
Luther's  terrible  Little  Catechism l 
and  Balslev's  equally  objectionable 
work  with  her.  Her  parents  evi- 
dently look  upon  it  as  most  natural 
that  she  should  also  cultivate  her  soul 
at  our  house. 

Her  copies  of  these  two  classics  were 
not  published  yesterday.  They  are 
probably  heirlooms  in  Dirty's  family. 

1  Luther's  Lille  Katckismus,  the  Lutheran  cate- 
chism in  general  use  in  Denmark. — A.  T.  de  M. 
81 


MY   LI'lTLE   BOY 

They  are  covered  in  thick  brown 
paper,  which  again  is  protected  by  a 
heavy  layer  of  dirt  against  any  touch 
of  clean  fingers.  They  can  be  smelt 
at  a  distance. 

But  my  little  boy  is  no  snob. 

When  Dirty  has  finished  her  stud- 
ies— she  always  reads  out  aloud — he 
asks  her  permission  to  turn  over  the 
pages  of  the  works  in  which  she  finds 
those  strange  words.  He  stares  re- 
spectfully at  the  letters  which  he  can- 
not read. 

And  then  he  asks  questions. 

He  asks  Dirty,  he  asks  the  servant, 
he  asks  us.  Before  any  one  suspects 
it,  he  is  at  home  in  the  whole  field  of 
theology. 

He  knows  that  God  is  in  Heaven, 
where  all  good  people  go  to  Him, 
while  the  wicked  are  put  down  below 

82 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

in  Hell.  That  God  created  the  world 
in  six  days  and  said  that  we  must  not 
do  anything  on  Sundays.  That  God 
can  do  everything  and  knows  every- 
thing and  sees  everything. 

He  often  prays,  creeps  upstairs  as 
high  as  he  can  go,  so  as  to  be  nearer 
Heaven,  and  shouts  as  loud  as  he  can. 
The  other  day  I  found  him  at  the  top 
of  the  folding-steps : 

"Dear  God!  You  must  please  give 
us  fine  weather  to-morrow,  for  we  are 
going  to  the  wood." 

He  says  Du  to  everybody  except 
God  and  the  grocer. 

He  never  compromises. 

The  servant  is  laying  the  table;  we 
have  guests  coming  and  we  call  her 
attention  to  a  little  hole  in  the  cloth: 

"I  must  lay  it  so  that  no  one  can 
see  it,"  she  says. 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"God  will  see  it." 

4 'He  is  not  coming  this  evening," 
says  the  blasphemous  hussy. 

"Yes,  He  is  everywhere,"  answers 
my  little  boy,  severely. 

He  looks  after  me  in  particular: 

"You  mustn't  say  'gad,'  Father. 
Dirty's  governess  says  that  people 
who  say  'gad'  go  to  Hell." 

"I  shan't  say  it  again,"  I  reply, 
humbly. 

One  Sunday  morning,  he  finds  me 
writing  and  upbraids  me  seriously. 

"My  little  boy,"  I  say,  distressfully, 
"I  must  work  every  day.  If  I  do  no- 
thing on  Sunday,  I  do  nothing  on 
Monday  either.  If  I  do  nothing  on 
Monday,  I  am  idle  on  Tuesday  too. 
And  so  on." 

He  ponders;  and  I  continue,  with 
the  courage  of  despair : 

84 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"You  must  have  noticed  that  Dirty 
wants  a  new  catechism?  The  one  she 
has  is  dirty  and  old." 

He  agrees  to  this. 

"She  will  never  have  one,  you  see," 
I  say,  emphatically.  "Her  father  rests 
so  tremendously  on  Sunday  that  he  is 
hardly  able  to  do  anything  on  the 
other  days.  He  never  earns  enough 
to  buy  a  new  catechism." 

I  have  won — this  engagement.  But 
the  war  is  continued  without  cessation 
of  hostilities. 

The  mother  of  my  little  boy  and  I 
are  sitting  in  the  twilight  by  his  bed- 
side and  softly  talking  about  this. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  she  asks. 

"We  can  do  nothing,"  I  reply. 
"Dirty  is  right:  God  is  everywhere. 
We  can't  keep  Him  out.  And  if  we 
could,  for  a  time:  what  then?  A  day 

85 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

would  come  perhaps  when  our  little 
boy  was  ill  or  sad  and  the  priests 
would  come  to  him  with  their  God  as 
a  new  and  untried  miraculous  remedy 
and  bewilder  his  mind  and  his  senses. 
Our  little  boy  too  will  have  to  go 
through  Luther  and  Balslev  and 
Assens  and  confirmation  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.  Then  this  will  become  a 
commonplace  to  him;  and  one  day  he 
will  form  his  own  views,  as  we  have 
done." 

But,  when  he  comes  and  asks  how 
big  God  is,  whether  He  is  bigger  than 
the  Round  Tower,  how  far  it  is  to 
Heaven,  why  the  weather  was  not 
fine  on  the  day  when  he  prayed  so 
hard  for  it :  then  we  fly  from  the  face 
of  the  Lord  and  hide  like  Adam  and 
Eve  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

And  we  leave  Dirty  to  explain. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MY  little  boy  has  got  a  rival,  whose 
name  is  Henrik,  a  popinjay  who  not 
only  is  six  years  old,  but  has  an  un- 
limited supply  of  liquorice  at  his  dis- 
posal. And,  to  fill  the  measure  of  my 
little  boy's  bitterness,  Henrik  is  to  go 
to  the  dancing-school;  and  I  am, 
therefore,  not  surprised  when  my  lit- 
tle boy  asks  to  be  taught  to  dance, 
so  that  he  may  not  be  left  quite  be- 
hind in  the  contest. 

"I  don't  advise  you  to  do  that,"  I 
say.  "The  dancing  which  you  learn  at 
school  is  not  pretty  and  does  not  play 
so  great  a  part  in  love  as  you  imagine. 
I  don't  know  how  to  dance ;  and  many 

87 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

charming  ladies  used  to  prefer  me  to 
the  most  accomplished  ornaments  of 
the  ball-room.  Besides,  you  know, 
you  are  knock-kneed." 

And,  to  cheer  him  up,  I  sing  a  little 
song  which  we  composed  when  we 
were  small  and  had  a  dog  and  did  not 
think  about  women : 

See,  my  son,  that  little  basset, 

Running  with  his  knock-kneed  legs! 
His  own  puppy,  lie  cant  catch  it  : 
He'll  fall  down  as  sure  as  eggs ! 
Knock-kneed  Billy ! 
Isn't  he  silly  ? 
Silly  Bitty! 

But  poetry  fails  to  comfort  him. 
Dark  is  his  face  and  desperate  his 
glance.  And,  when  I  see  that  the  case 
is  serious,  I  resolve  to  resort  to  seri- 
ous measures. 

I  take  him  with  me  to  a  ball,  a  real 

88 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

ball,  where  people  who  have  learnt  to 
dance  go  to  enjoy  themselves.  It  is 
difficult  to  keep  him  in  a  more  or  less 
waking  condition,  but  I  succeed. 

We  sit  quietly  in  a  corner  and  watch 
the  merry  throng.  I  say  not  a  word, 
but  look  at  his  wide-open  eyes. 

"Father,  why  does  that  man  jump 
like  that,  when  he  is  so  awfully  hot?" 

"Yes;  can  you  understand  it?" 

"Why  does  that  lady  with  her  head 
on  one  side  look  so  tired?  .  .  .  Why 
does  that  fat  woman  hop  about  so 
funnily,  Father?  .  .  .  Father,  what 
queer  legs  that  man  there  has!" 

It  rains  questions  and  observations. 
We  make  jokes  and  laugh  till  the 
tears  come  to  our  eyes.  We  whisper 
naughty  things  to  each  other  and  go 
into  a  side-room  and  mimic  a  pair  of 
crooked  legs  till  wre  can't  hold  our- 

89 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

selves  for  laughter.  We  sit  and  wait 
till  a  steam  thrashing-machine  on  its 
round  comes  past  us;  and  we  are  fit 
to  die  when  we  hear  it  puff  and  blow. 

We  enjoy  ourselves  beyond  meas- 
ure. 

And  we  make  a  hit. 

The  steam  thrashing-machine  and 
the  crooked  legs  and  the  fat  woman 
and  the  hot  gentleman  and  others 
crowd  round  us  and  admire  the  dear 
little  boy.  We  accept  their  praises, 
for  we  have  agreed  not  to  say  what 
we  think  to  anybody,  except  to 
Mother,  when  we  come  home,  and 
then,  of  course,  to  Dirty. 

And  we  wink  our  eyes  and  enjoy 
our  delightful  fun  until  we  fall  asleep 
and  are  driven  home  and  put  to  bed. 

And  then  we  have  done  with  the 
dancing-school. 

90 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

My  little  boy  paints  in  strong  col- 
ours, for  his  Dirty's  benefit,  what 
Henrik  will  look  like  when  he  dances. 
It  is  no  use  for  that  young  man  to 
deny  all  that  my  little  boy  says  and 
to  execute  different  elegant  steps.  I 
was  prepared  for  this ;  and  my  little 
boy  tells  exultantly  that  this  is  only 
something  with  which  they  lure 
stupid  people  at  the  start  and  that  it 
will  certainly  end  with  Henrik's  get- 
ting very  hot  and  hopping  round  on 
crooked  legs  with  a  fat  woman  and  a 
face  of  despair. 

In  the  meantime,  of  course,  I  do  not 
forget  that,  if  we  pull  down  without 
building  up  we  shall  end  by  landing 
ourselves  in  an  unwholesome  scepti- 
cism. 

We  therefore  invent  various  dances, 
which  my  little  boy  executes  in  the 

91 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

courtyard  to  Dirty 's  joy  and  to  Hen- 
rik's  most  jealous  envy.  We  point  em- 
phatically to  the  fact  that  the  dances 
are  our  own,  that  they  are  composed 
only  for  the  woman  we  love  and  per- 
formed only  for  her. 

There  is,  for  instance,  a  dance  with 
a  stick,  which  my  little  boy  wields, 
while  Henrik  draws  back.  Another 
with  a  pair  of  new  mittens  for  Dirty. 
And,  lastly,  the  liquorice  dance,  which 
expresses  an  extraordinary  contempt 
for  that  foodstuff. 

That  Dirty  should  suck  a  stick  of 
liquorice,  which  she  has  received  from 
Henrik,  while  enjoying  her  other  ad- 
mirer's satire,  naturally  staggers  my 
little  boy.  But  I  explain  to  him  that 
that  is  because  she  is  a  woman  and 
that  that  is  a  thing  which  can't  be 
helped. 

92 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

What  Bournonville  x  would  say,  if 
he  could  look  down  upon  us  from  his 
place  in  Heaven,  I  do  not  know. 

But  I  don't  believe  that  he  can. 

If  he,  up  there,  could  see  how  peo- 
ple dance  down  here,  he  really  would 
not  stay  there. 

1  A  famous  French  ballet-master  who  figured 
at  the  Copenhagen  Opera-house  in  the  eight- 
eenth century. — A.  T.  de  M. 


93 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THERE  is  a  battle  royal  and  a 
great  hullabaloo  among  the  children 
in  the  court-yard. 

I  hear  them  shouting  "Jew!"  and  I 
go  to  the  window  and  see  my  little 
boy  in  the  front  rank  of  the  bandits, 
screaming,  fighting  with  clenched 
fists  and  without  his  cap. 

I  sit  down  quietly  to  my  work  again, 
certain  that  he  will  appear  before 
long  and  ease  his  heart. 

And  he  comes  directly  after. 

He  stands  still,  as  is  his  way,  by  my 
side  and  says  nothing.  I  steal  a  glance 
at  him:  he  is  greatly  excited  and 

94 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

proud  and  glad,  like  one  who  has 
fearlessly  done  his  duty. 

"What  fun  you've  been  having  down 
there!" 

"Oh,"  he  says,  modestly,  "it  was 
only  a  Jew  boy  whom  we  were  lick- 
ing." 

I  jump  up  so  quickly  that  I  upset 
my  chair: 

"A  Jew  boy?  Were  you  licking  him? 
What  had  he  done?" 

"Nothing.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  is  not  very  certain,  for  I 
look  so  queer. 

And  that  is  only  the  beginning.  For 
now  I  snatch  my  hat  and  run  out  of 
the  door  as  fast  as  I  can  and  shout : 

"Come  .  .  .  come  ...  we  must  find 
him  and  beg  his  pardon!" 

My  little  boy  hurries  after  me.  He 
does  not  understand  a  word  of  it,  but 

95 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

he  is  terribly  in  earnest.  We  look  in 
the  courtyard,  we  shout  and  call.  We 
rush  into  the  street  and  round  the  cor- 
ner, so  eager  are  we  to  come  up  with 
him.  Breathlessly,  we  ask  three  pass- 
ers-by if  they  have  not  seen  a  poor, 
ill-used  Jew  boy. 

All  in  vain:  the  Jew  boy  and  all 
his  persecutors  are  blown  away  into 
space. 

So  wu  go  and  sit  up  in  my  room 
again,  the  laboratory  where  our  soul 
is  crystallized  out  of  the  big  events 
of  our  little  life.  My  forehead  is 
wrinkled  and  I  drum  disconsolately 
with  my  fingers  on  the  table.  The  boy 
has  both  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
does  not  take  his  eyes  from  my  face. 

"Well,"  I  say,  decidedly,  "there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  done.  I  hope  you 
will  meet  that  Jew  boy  one  day,  so 

90 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

that  you  can  give  him  your  hand  and 
ask  him  to  forgive  you.  You  must 
tell  him  that  you  did  that  only  be- 
cause you  were  stupid.  But  if,  an- 
other time,  any  one  does  him  any 
harm,  I  hope  you  will  help  him  and 
lick  the  other  one  as  long  as  you  can 
stir  a  limb." 

I  can  see  by  my  little  boy's  face  that 
he  is  ready  to  do  what  I  wish.  For  he 
is  still  a  mercenary,  who  dcjs  not 
ask  under  which  flag,  so  long  as  there 
is  a  battle  and  booty  to  follow.  It  is 
my  duty  to  train  him  to  be  a  brave 
recruit,  who  will  defend  his  fair 
mother-land,  and  so  I  continue: 

"Let  me  tell  you,  the  Jews  are  by 
way  of  being  quite  wonderful  people. 
You  remember  David,  about  whom 
Dirty  reads  at  school:  he  was  a  Jew 
boy.  And  the  Child  Jesus,  whom 

97 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

everybody  worships  and  loves,  al- 
though He  died  two  thousand  years 
ago:  He  was  a  little  Jew  also." 

My  little  boy  stands  with  his  arms 
on  my  knee  and  I  go  on  with  my 
story. 

The  old  Hebrews  rise  before  our 
eyes  in  all  their  splendour  and  power, 
quite  different  from  Dirty 's  Balslev. 
They  ride  on  their  camels  in  coats  of 
many  colours  and  with  long  beards: 
Moses  and  Joseph  and  his  brethren 
and  Samson  and  David  and  Saul. 
We  hear  wonderful  stories.  The  walls 
of  Jericho  fall  at  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet. 

"And  what  next?"  says  my  little 
boy,  using  the  expression  which  he 
employed  when  he  was  much  smaller 
and  which  still  comes  to  his  lips  when- 
ever he  is  carried  away. 

98 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

,We  hear  of  the  destruction  of  Jeru- 
salem and  how  the  Jews  took  their 
little  boys  by  the  hand  and  wandered 
from  place  to  place,  scoffed  at,  de- 
spised and  ill-treated.  How  they  were 
allowed  to  own  neither  house  nor 
land,  but  could  only  be  merchants, 
and  how  the  Christian  robbers  took 
all  the  money  which  they  had  got 
together.  How,  nevertheless,  they  re- 
mained true  to  their  God  and  kept  up 
their  old  sacred  customs  in  the  midst 
of  the  strangers  who  hated  and  per- 
secuted them. 

The  whole  day  is  devoted  to  the 
Jews. 

We  look  at  old  books  on  the  shelves 
which  I  love  best  to  read  and  which 
are  written  by  a  Jew  with  a  wonder- 
ful name,  which  a  little  boy  can't 
remember  at  all.  We  learn  that  the 

99 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

most  famous  man  now  living  in  Den- 
mark is  a  Jew. 

And,  when  evening  comes  and 
Mother  sits  down  at  the  piano  and 
sings  the  song  which  Father  loves 
above  all  other  songs,  it  appears  that 
the  words  were  written  by  one  Jew 
and  the  melody  composed  by  another. 

My  little  boy  is  hot  and  red  when  he 
falls  to  sleep  that  night.  He  turns 
restlessly  in  bed  and  talks  in  his  sleep. 

"He  is  a  little  feverish,"  says  his 
mother. 

And  I  bend  down  and  kiss  his  fore- 
head and  answer,  calmly: 

"That  is  not  surprising.  To-day  I 
have  vaccinated  him  against  the  mean- 
est of  all  mean  and  vulgar  diseases." 


100 


CHAPTER  XV 

\VE  are  staying  in  the  country,  a 
long  way  out,  where  the  real  coun- 
try is. 

Cows  and  horses,  pigs  and  sheep,  a 
beautiful  dog  and  hens  and  ducks 
form  our  circle  of  acquaintances.  In 
addition  to  these,  there  are  of  course 
the  two-legged  beings  who  own  and 
look  after  the  four-legged  ones  and 
who,  in  my  little  boy's  eyes,  belong 
to  quite  the  same  kind. 

The  great  sea  lies  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope.  Ships  float  in  the  distance  and 
have  nothing  to  say  to  us.  The  sun 
burns  us  and  bronzes  us.  We  eat  like 
thrashers,  sleep  like  guinea-pigs  and 
wake  like  larks.  The  only  real  sorrow 
101 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

that  we  have  suffered  is  that  we  were 
not  allowed  to  have  our  breeches  made 
with  a  flap  at  the  side,  like  the  old 
wood-cutter's. 

Presently,  it  happens  that,  for  bet- 
ter or  worse,  we  get  neighbours. 

They  are  regular  Copenhageners. 
They  were  prepared  not  to  find  elec- 
tric light  in  the  farm-house;  but,  if 
they  had  known  that  there  was  no 
water  in  the  kitchen,  God  knows  they 
would  not  have  come.  They  trudge 
through  the  clover  as  though  it  were 
mire  and  are  sorry  to  find  so  few  corn- 
flowers in  the  rye.  A  cow  going  loose 
along  the  roads  fills  them  with  a  ter- 
ror which  might  easily  have  satisfied 
a  royal  tiger. 

The  pearl  of  the  family  is  Erna. 

Erna  is  five  years  old ;  her  very  small 
face  is  pale  green,  with  watery  blue 

102 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

eyes  and  yellow  curls.  She  is  richly 
and  gaily  dressed  in  a  broad  and  slov- 
enly sash,  daintily-embroidered  pan- 
talets, short  open-work  socks  and  pa- 
tent-leather shoes.  She  falls  if  she  but 
moves  a  foot,  for  she  is  used  only  to 
gliding  over  polished  floors  or  as- 
phalt. 

I  at  once  perceive  that  my  little 
boy's  eyes  have  seen  a  woman. 

He  has  seen  the  woman  that  comes 
to  us  all  at  one  time  or  another  and 
turns  our  heads  with  her  rustling  silks 
and  her  glossy  hair  and  wears  her  soul 
in  her  skirts  and  our  poor  hearts  under 
her  heel. 

"Now  comes  the  perilous  moment 
for  Dirty,"  I  say  to  the  mother  of  my 
little  boy. 

This  time  it  is  my  little  boy's  turn 
to  be  superior. 

103 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

He  knows  the  business  thoroughly 
and  explains  it  all  to  Erna.  When  he 
worries  the  horse,  she  trembles,  im- 
pressed with  his  courage  and  manli- 
ness. When  she  has  a  fit  of  terror  at 
the  sight  of  a  hen,  he  is  charmed  with 
her  delicacy.  He  knows  the  way  to 
the  smith's,  he  dares  to  roll  down  the 
high  slope,  he  chivalrously  carries  her 
ridiculous  little  cape. 

Altogether,  there  is  no  doubt  as  to 
the  condition  of  his  heart.  And,  while 
Erna's  family  apparently  favour  the 
position — for  which  may  the  devil 
take  them! — I  must  needs  wait  with 
resignation  like  one  who  knows  that 
love  is  every  man's  master. 

One  morning  he  proposes. 

He  is  sitting  with  his  beloved  on  the 
lawn.  Close  to  them,  her  aunt  is  nurs- 
ing her  chlorosis  under  a  red  parasol 

104 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

and  with  a  novel  in  her  bony  lap.  Up 
in  the  balcony  above  sit  I,  as  Provi- 
dence, and  see  everything,  myself  un- 
seen. 

"You  shall  be  my  sweetheart,"  says 
my  little  boy. 

"Yes,"  says  Erna. 

"I  have  a  sweetheart  already  in 
Copenhagen,"  he  says,  proudly. 

This  communication  naturally  by  no 
means  lowers  Erna's  suitor  in  her 
eyes.  But  it  immediately  arouses  all 
Auntie's  moral  instincts: 

"If  you  have  a  sweetheart,  you  must 
be  true  to  her." 

"Erna  shall  be  my  sweetheart." 

Auntie  turns  her  eyes  up  to  Heaven : 

"Listen,  child,"  she  says.  "You're  a 
very  naughty  boy.  If  you  have  given 
Dir— Dir— " 

"Dirty,"  says  the  boy. 

105 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

"Well,  that's  an  extraordinary 
name!  But,  if  you  have  given  her 
your  word,  you  must  keep  it  till 
you  die.  Else  you'll  never,  never  be 
happy." 

My  little  boy  understands  not  a 
word  and  answers  not  a  word.  Erna 
begins  to  cry  at  the  prospect  that  this 
good  match  may  not  come  off.  But 
I  bend  down  over  the  baluster  and 
raise  my  hat: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Froken.  Was 
it  not  you  who  jilted  Hr.  Peter- 
sen?  .  .  ." 

"Good  heavens!  .  .  ." 

She  packs  up  her  chlorosis  and  dis- 
appears with  Erna,  mumbling  some- 
thing about  like  father,  like  son,  and 
goodness  knows  what. 

Presently,  my  little  boy  comes  up 
to  me  and  stands  and  hangs  about. 

10G 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

"Where  has  Erna  gone  to?"  I  ask 
my  little  boy. 

"She  mustn't  go  out,"  he  says,  de- 
jectedly. 

He  puts  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
looks  straight  before  him. 

"Father,"  he  says,  "can't  you  have 
two  sweethearts?" 

The  question  comes  quite  unexpect- 
edly and,  at  the  moment,  I  don't 
know  what  to  answer. 

"Well?"  says  the  mother  of  my  lit- 
tle boy,  amiably,  and  looks  up  from 
her  newspaper. 

And  I  pull  my  waistcoat  down  and 
my  collar  up : 

"Yes,"  I  say,  firmly.  "You  can.  But 
it  is  wrong.  It  leads  to  more  fuss  and 
unpleasantness  than  you  can  possibly 
conceive." 

A  silence. 

107 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"Are  you  so  fond  of  Erna?"  asks 
our  mother. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  her?" 

"Yes." 

I  get  up  and  rub  my  hands: 

"Then  the  thing  is  settled,"  I  say. 
"We'll  write  to  Dirty  and  give  her 
notice.  There's  nothing  else  to  be 
done.  I  will  write  now  and  you  can 
give  the  letter  yourself  to  the  post- 
man, when  he  comes  this  afternoon. 
If  you  take  my  advice,  you  will  make 
her  a  present  of  your  ball.  Then  she 
will  not  be  so  much  upset." 

"She  can  have  my  gold-fish  too,  if 
she  likes,"  says  the  boy. 

"Excellent,  excellent.  We  will  give 
her  the  gold-fish.  Then  she  will  really 
have  nothing  in  the  world  to  com- 
plain of." 

108 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

My  little  boy  goes  away.  But,  pres- 
ently, he  returns: 

"Father,  have  you  written  the  letter 
to  Dirty?" 

"Not  yet,  my  boy.  There  is  time 
enough.  I  sha'n't  forget  it." 

"Father,  I  am  so  fond  of  Dirty." 

"She  was  certainly  a  dear  little  girl." 

A  silence. 

"Father,  I  am  also  so  fond  of  Erna." 

We  look  at  each  other.  This  is  no 
joke: 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  wait  with 
the  letter  till  to-morrow,"  I  say.  "Or 
perhaps  it  would  be  best  if  we  talked 
to  Dirty  ourselves,  when  we  get  back 
to  town." 

We  both  ponder  over  the  matter  and 
really  don't  know  what  to  do. 

Then  my  eyes  surprise  an  indescrib- 
able smile  on  our  mother's  face.  All 

109 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

a  woman's  incapacity  to  understand 
man's  honesty  is  contained  within  that 
smile  and  I  resent  it  greatly: 

"Come,"  I  say  and  give  my  hand  to 
my  little  boy.  "Let  us  go." 

And  we  go  to  a  place  we  know  of, 
far  away  behind  the  hedge,  where  we 
lie  on  our  backs  and  look  up  at  the 
blue  sky  and  talk  together  sensibly, 
as  two  gentlemen  should. 


no 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MY  little  boy  is  to  go  to  school. 

We  can't  keep  him  at  home  any 
longer,  says  his  mother.  He  himself 
is  glad  to  go,  of  course,  because  he 
does  not  know  what  school  is. 

I  know  what  it  is  and  I  know  also 
that  there  is  no  escape  for  him,  that 
he  must  go.  But  I  am  sick  at  heart. 
All  that  is  good  within  me  revolts 
against  the  inevitable. 

So  we  go  for  our  last  morning  walk, 
along  the  road  where  something  won- 
derful has  always  happened  to  us.  It 
looks  to  me  as  if  the  trees  have  crape 
wound  round  their  tops  and  the  birds 
sing  in  a  minor  key  and  the  people 
in 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

stare  at  me  with  earnest  and  sympa- 
thetic eyes. 

But  my  little  boy  sees  nothing.  He 
is  only  excited  at  the  prospect.  He 
talks  and  asks  questions  without  stop- 
ping. 

We  sit  down  by  the  edge  of  our 
usual  ditch — alas,  that  ditch ! 

And  suddenly  my  heart  triumphs 
over  my  understanding.  The  voice 
of  my  clear  conscience  penetrates 
through  the  whole  well-trained  and 
harmonious  choir  which  is  to  give 
the  concert;  and  it  sings  its  solo  in  the 
ears  of  my  little  boy : 

"I  just  want  to  tell  you  that  school 
is  a  horrid  place,"  I  say.  "You 
can  have  no  conception  of  what 
you  will  have  to  put  up  with  there. 
They  will  tell  you  that  two  and  two 
are  four.  .  .  ." 

112 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

"Mother  has  taught  me  that  al- 
ready," says  he,  blithely. 

"Yes,  but  that  is  wrong,  you  poor 
wretch!"  I  cry.  "Two  and  two  are 
never  four,  or  only  very  seldom.  And 
that's  not  all.  They  will  try  to  make 
you  believe  that  Teheran  is  the  capi- 
tal of  Persia  and  that  Mont  Blanc  is 
15,781  feet  high  and  you  will  take 
them  at  their  word.  But  I  tell  you 
that  both  Teheran  and  Persia  are 
nothing  at  all,  an  empty  sound,  a  stu- 
pid joke.  And  Mont  Blanc  is  not  half 
as  big  as  the  mound  in  the  tallow- 
chandler's  back-garden.  And  listen: 
you  will  never  have  any  more  time 
to  play  in  the  courtyard  with  Einar. 
When  he  shouts  to  you  to  come  out, 
you'll  have  to  sit  and  read  about  a  lot 
of  horrible  old  kings  who  have  been 
dead  for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 

113 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

years,  if  they  ever  existed  at  all, 
which  I,  for  my  part,  simply  don't 
believe." 

My  little  boy  does  not  understand 
me.  But  he  sees  that  I  am  sad  and 
puts  his  hand  in  mine : 

"Mother  says  that  you  must  go  to 
school  to  become  a  clever  boy,"  he 
says.  "Mother  says  that  Einar  is  ever 
so  much  too  small  and  stupid  to  go  to 
school." 

I  bow  my  head  and  nod  and  say 
nothing. 

That  is  past. 

And  I  take  him  to  school  and  see 
how  he  storms  up  the  steps  without 
so  much  as  turning  his  head  to  look 
back  at  me. 


114 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HERE  ends  this  book  about  my  lit- 
tle boy. 

What  more  can  there  be  to  tell? 

He  is  no  longer  mine.  I  have  handed 
him  over  to  society.  Hr.  Petersen, 
candidate  in  letters,  Hr.  Nielsen,  stu- 
dent of  theology,  and  Froken  Han- 
sen,  certificated  teacher,  will  now 
set  their  distinguished  example  be- 
fore him  for  five  hours  daily.  He  will 
form  himself  in  their  likeness.  Their 
spirit  hovers  over  him  at  school:  he 
brings  it  home  with  him,  it  overshad- 
ows him  when  he  is  learning  the  les- 
sons which  they  zealously  mete  out  to 
him. 

115 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

I  don't  know  these  people.  But  I 
pay  them. 

I,  who  have  had  a  hard  fight  to  keep 
my  thoughts  free  and  my  limbs  un- 
restrained and  who  have  not  retired 
from  the  fight  without  deep  wounds 
of  which  I  am  reminded  when  the 
weather  changes,  I  have,  of  my  own 
free  will,  brought  him  to  the  institu- 
tion for  maiming  human  beings.  I, 
who  at  times  have  soared  to  peaks 
that  were  my  own,  because  the  other 
birds  dared  not  follow  me,  have  my- 
self brought  him  to  the  place  where 
wings  are  clipped  for  flying  respect- 
ably, with  the  flock. 

"There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done," 
says  the  mother  of  my  little  boy. 

"Really?"  I  reply,  bitterly.  "Was 
there  nothing  else  to  be  done?  But 
suppose  that  I  had  put  by  some 

116 


MY  LITTLE   BOY 

money,  so  that  I  could  have  saved 
Messrs.  Petersen  and  Nielsen  and 
Froken  Hansen  their  trouble  and  em- 
ployed my  day  in  myself  opening  out 
lands  for  that  little  traveller  whom  I 
myself  have  brought  into  the  land? 
Suppose  that  I  had  looked  round  the 
world  for  people  with  small  boys  who 
think  as  I  do  and  that  we  had  taken 
upon  us  to  bring  up  these  young  ani- 
mals so  that  they  kept  sight  of  horns 
and  tails  and  fairy-tales?" 

"Yes,"  she  says. 

"Small  boys  have  a  bad  time  of  it, 
you  know." 

"They  had  a  worse  time  of  it  in  the 
old  days." 

"That  is  a  poor  comfort.  And  it  can 
become  worse  again.  The  world  is  full 
of  parents  and  teachers  who  shake 
their  foolish  heads  and  turn  up  their 

117 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

old  eyes  and  cross  their  flat  chests 
with  horror  at  the  depravity  of 
youth:  children  are  so  disobedient,  so 
naughty,  so  self-willed  and  talk  so 
disrespectfully  to  their  elders!  .  .  . 
And  what  do  we  do,  we  who  know 
better?" 

"We  do  what  we  can." 

But  I  walk  about  the  room,  more 
and  more  indignant  and  ashamed  of 
the  pitiful  part  which  I  am  playing: 

"Do  you  remember,  a  little  while 
ago,  he  came  to  me  and  said  that  he 
longed  so  for  the  country  and  asked 
if  we  couldn't  go  there  for  a  little? 
There  were  horses  and  cows  and  green 
fields  to  be  read  in  his  eyes.  Well,  I 
couldn't  leave  my  work.  And  I 
couldn't  afford  it.  So  I  treated  him 
to  a  shabby  and  high-class  sermon 
about  the  tailor  to  whom  I  owed 

118 


MY   LITTLE   BOY 

money.  Don't  you  understand  that  I 
let  my  little  boy  do  my  work,  that  I 
let  him  pay  my  debt?  .  .  ."  I  bend 
down  over  her  and  say  earnestly, 
"You  must  know;  do  please  tell  me 

—God  help  me,  I  do  not  know — if 
I  ought  not  rather  to  have  paid  my 
debt  to  the  boy  and  cheated  the 
other?" 

"You  know  quite  well,"  she  says. 

She  says  it  in  such  a  way  and  looks 
at  me  with  two  such  sensible  eyes  and 
is  so  strong  and  so  time  that  I  sud- 
denly think  things  look  quite  wrell  for 
our  little  boy;  and  I  become  restful 
and  cheerful  like  herself: 

"Let  Petersen  and  Nielsen  and 
Hansen  look  out!"  I  say.  "My  little 
boy,  for  what  I  care,  may  take  from 
them  all  the  English  and  geography 
and  history  that  he  can.  But  they 

119 


MY  LITTLE  BOY 

shall  throw  no  dust  in  his  eyes.  I  shall 
keep  him  awake  and  we  shall  have 
great  fun  and  find  them  out." 

"And  I  shall  help  him  with  his  Eng- 
lish and  geography  and  history," 
says  she. 

THE  END 


120 


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